


at the edge of scorching (too much like kerosene)

by frankie_31



Series: the place between [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, A - Freeform, Angst, F/F, F/M, Feral Stiles Stilinski, Happy Steter Endgame, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mute Stiles Stilinski, Past Child Abuse, Sign Language, The Hale Family (Teen Wolf) Lives, Under-negotiated Kink, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: “What if you don’t love him anymore?” Rowan asks, squinting at Stiles in the sunshine. “After you fall in love with the new person?”“How?” Stiles asks, perplexed. “Do you stop loving someone when you meet the next?”“I guess you don't have to,” Rowan says. “You could keep loving Unc—him. And the new person.”“I don’t think I’d be me if I didn’t love him,” Stiles signs. “I’d be someone different.”





	1. too much bruise

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go. Into Part Two. Stiles is a Freshman in college, alongside the twins. I hope you enjoy this continuation of how to return this rage (how it circles endless).

He likes his weekly meeting. 

Or, he doesn’t hate it. 

He started going because Rowan brought him a flier three times in one week, _ ASL Hang Out! At 3PM on Wednesdays in the Lost Coast State University library! _. 

Maybe he’d spent too many days slumped on his bed. Maybe he hadn’t showered enough. Maybe Rowan just wanted him to have some time outside of the twins. 

He doesn’t hate that everyone knows what he’s saying in the meeting. He doesn’t hate learning new words like ‘whisk’ or how nice everyone is all the time. 

He does maybe hate Luke, though. Not because Luke is mean or rude or unpleasant. But because Luke wants him.

Luke smiles with his eyes and signs Stiles’ name carefully and offers to share his blueberry muffins. Stiles thinks of the elk in spring, picking mates. 

The bulls would fight, their bellowing and the terrible cracks from their antlers echoing in the morning fog. Stiles would sit atop his den, knees pulled the chest, and watch them fight for their chosen females. 

One male would win and one would leave to die or heal or whatever. One is a loser. Luke is a loser elk. 

Stiles doesn’t want to be his mate. Stiles doesn’t want a loser elk to have sex with him. 

Cora laughed when he told her about it and told him that there are a lot of loser elk in college and she would like it better if humans fought like elk so she could tell which to go home with. 

Rowan offered to fight Luke.

Stiles isn’t sure if that means Rowan would be the winning elk and then he’d have to have sex with Rowan. He declines either way. 

The meeting is almost over and Luke’s blueberry muffin is reduced to crumbs. Stiles drums his fingers over the table and waits for Jackie to end the meeting. Jackie is very cool. Stiles would be okay if Jackie fought Luke because she has very pretty purple hair and Stiles wants to touch it. 

Jackie has a mate already though, Jody, and doesn’t want to let Stiles touch her hair. 

This is fine. Stiles knows that he is probably a loser elk to some humans. His throat is ruined and he forgets to wear shoes a lot. He has a hard time gaining muscle and he thinks that when he stands next to Rowan, who has a lot of muscles, he looks particularly loserish. 

Jackie must have dismissed them while he was thinking because he comes back to himself when Luke touches his shoulder. 

“There’s a party tonight at my frat,” he signs. “You should come. Bring your siblings.”

“Parties are cool,” Stiles replies and sticks the end of his pencil in his mouth. “I like parties.”

“There’s music,” Luke continues. “The boys pitched in for a live band. Not that I can appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to make it,” Stiles replies and chews the end of his pencil with a satisfying crunch. He raises his hands, “If the twins don’t want to go, I’ll probably stay home.”

“You don’t do stuff without them,” Luke signs and Stiles nods. 

“They’re my family,” he signs and Luke makes a face Stiles isn’t familiar with. Well, no. He is familiar with it—just not when it’s directed at him. It’s Rowan’s ‘cute baby animal’ face. 

“Definitely invite them,” Luke signs.

“We’ll see,” Stiles signs and chomps the eraser off his pencil.

“I hope you decide to come,” Luke signs with a grin and then waves goodbye. 

Stiles packs his things away and heads for his motorcycle out in student parking. Luke makes him feel weird and he jogs to try and shake it off.

Stiles loves his motorcycle. He loves the wind and the lurch in his stomach when he takes sharp corners. He even loves the leather jacket Derek makes him wear.

Driving a car made Stiles feel overwhelmed, too many things to pay attention to and too many ways to hurt someone. Derek had surprised him with a motorcycle and they’d gotten their motorcycle license together.

He climbs on, starts it with a smile. Then, he heads for home. 

Home is an apartment with the twins. They went to the same college as him, a nearby state school on the coast of California.

After he left and after the twins had started working on home study with Stiles, he had been surprised to discover he was smart. He’d blown through placement tests, wrangling a GED in less time than anyone expected. 

The twins had put off college another semester passed the gap year and they’d all enrolled together at Lost Coast State

He pulls into their parking garage with a swipe from his access pass and rides the elevator up to the top floor. Talia has gone a little overboard with housing and they ended up with more room than they could ever fill. 

The twins are gone. He sets his backpack on the kitchen table and grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, crawls up onto the counter by the window and looks out at the sunny sky. 

They have an ocean view here, the sea brings Stiles to a place that is very nearly peaceful. 

He finishes his apple and shoots it into the trash can from across the room, then resumes his meditation with the sea. 

One of the twins comes in the door, rustling with grocery bag. Stiles closes his eyes, tries to guess which it is by their footsteps alone. Rowan is taller and heavier than Cora but his wolfish body is as silent as hers. The twin brackets him with their arms, rubs their face on his in greeting and the scruff on their chin betrays them as Rowan. 

“How was the meeting?” Rowan asks and Stiles declines answering, rests his head on Rowan’s shoulder and looks back out the window. Rowan gives him a squeeze then pulls away and starts putting away groceries. “After I put our shit away, let’s go surf. We’ve got time.”

“Party tonight?” Stiles asks, waving to get his attention, and Rowan makes a thoughtful noise from the fridge. 

“I could party,” Rowan says. “Text Cora. See if she’s in.”

Stiles does and she is. 

Stiles hops off the counter and helps with groceries, then he and Rowan get into their wetsuits. Stiles zips a hoodie over his and Rowan packs a bag with sweats for them both. He knows better than to hope Stiles will use foresight. 

The have a special spot, the two of them. It’s down a winding road and then back up the edge of a cliff. There’s a small turn off where they can park the car and get out and a little trail that cuts jaggedly down the cliff to the beach. 

Stiles paddles out immediately, leaves his hoodie in a crumpled pile in the sand. He knows Rowan is close behind him and turns to look for his Packmate. 

Rowan’s smiling in the sunshine, muscles moving under his wetsuit and he turns his smile towards Stiles. 

“Hey, brother,” he says and paddles over to Stiles. “What party are we going too?”

“Luke’s frat,” Stiles signs and Rowan makes a face, sits up to straddle his board. 

“When is that dude gonna take a hint?” Rowan asks, crossing his arms. “You’re not going to let him hit it.”

“It’s nice for someone to think I’m attractive,” Stiles signs and Rowan’s face pinches. “I’m not attractive to most people.”

“You are attractive,” he says and splashes water at Stiles’ with his foot. “Lots of people want you.”

“Like who? Don’t say his name,” Stiles signs, more quickly at the end, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I didn’t mean him,” Rowan says, just loud enough to be heard over the water. “Other people.”

“When they tell me they want me I can tell Luke his parties suck,” Stiles signs with a shrug. “I just have to find one person who is bearable. Then I’m done with the list. “

“I really find it hard to believe he wanted you to fuck someone else,” Rowan says and Stiles sighs. 

“Not just fuck,” he signs. “I have to fall in love. Then he’ll come back. “

“What if you don’t love him anymore?” Rowan asks, squinting at Stiles in the sunshine. “After you fall in love with the new person?”

“How?” Stiles asks, perplexed. “Do you stop loving someone when you meet the next?”

“I guess you don't have to,” Rowan says. “You could keep loving Unc—him. And the new person.”

“I don’t think I’d be me if I didn’t love him,” Stiles signs. “I’d be someone different.”

“What if the different you is better?”

“You mean normal,” Stiles signs with a frown. 

“No offense, brother,” Rowan says, turns his board to catch an oncoming wave. “You couldn’t be normal if you wanted.”

Stiles matches him, paddling to line his board up and feeling the ocean swell below him. He lets himself forget their conversation and focuses on the rushing water behind him. 

***

Cora makes him dress up for parties. He wants to just wear his joggers and a sweatshirt. Maybe a T-shirt under for if he gets hot. 

But she pulls out jeans and a plaid button-up and makes him comb his hair and put pomade in it. Stiles hates the tacky, sticky pomade. 

She straightens his shirt edges and smacks his hands when he tries to grab his Nike slides and forces him to put on sneakers. 

“I feel like a dork,” he tells her and she shrugs. 

She’s wearing some iridescent plastic-jacket-thing over tiny white shorts. 

“Your butt is hanging out,” he signs with his eyebrows furrowed. “Cover your butt.”

“Not a chance,” she laughs and when he bangs on the wall to get Rowan’s attention she laughs even harder. “Rowan doesn’t care what I’m wearing.”

“Not true,” Rowan says, poking his head in the bathroom door. “We can’t clash.”

“You’ll get mosquito bites,” Stiles argues and Cora sets into giggles.

“Do you know why I love you?” She asks and wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s because you worry about my bug bites.”

Rowan wraps them both up in a hug and nuzzles in between them with a big white-toothed grin. 

“I love you both because you make me late to everything. Let’s go,” he says and pulls them towards the door. “Come on.”

Cora wiggles free and combs a hand through her hair, posing in the mirror like it’s a camera and bouncing out of the bathroom. Stiles turns in Rowan’s embrace and pulls at his button-up, trying to get it to sit comfortably. He gives up and, in a fit of rebellion, ruffles his hands through his hair. 

Rowan is wearing a white-T-shirt, pristine black jeans and shoes that cost too much. He’s wrapped around Stiles, smiling to himself in the mirror, and Stiles reaches up to grab his forearms. 

“You look good, brother,” Rowan says and shakes him back and forth. “Can we go?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles signs and it’s his turn to leave the bathroom. 

They walk to Luke’s frat and Cora disappears to fetch them cups. Rowan finds his teammates from the basketball crew quickly and gives Stiles a parting shoulder pat. He’s left, standing by the stairs, looking for Luke or anyone else from the Wednesday meeting. The twins and the people from the meeting comprise the entirety of his social sphere. 

Jackie is at the party and she’s already dancing with Jody. Her hair looks awesome under the colorful strobe lights and Stiles finds himself thinking about dying his own hair. 

He spots Luke across the party. 

Luke is dancing with a cheerleader, hands around her hips and he’s having a good time. His face is open, joyful. He looks completely unguarded and Stiles wonders how it feels to be comfortable in your skin. 

Luke is handsome, objectively. He’s tan and has golden hair and bright blue eyes like the sky. But he wears a stupid shark tooth necklace and carries bugs outside instead of squishing them and one time he ran into a doorway and cried because he got a nose bleed. 

Stiles is sure that he doesn’t want to have sex with him but he isn’t sure he doesn’t like him as a person. It’s confusing. 

Opening his world up after it was full of the Hales and his dad was terrifying. He doesn’t know what anyone is thinking. They could want to kill him or maim him or steal his food. It’s a complete mystery. 

He realizes he’s been staring at Luke for awhile now when the cheerleader points at him and Luke turns to peer across the party. He waves when he spots Stiles and kisses the cheerleader on the cheek before he begins moving his way through the crowded living room. 

“Stiles,” he sighs happily as he gets closer, his hands move carefully and his face is sweet and shy. “You came. “

“I did,” Stiles responds and rocks on his heels. He starts a sentence, then shakes his hands and starts anew. “Cool party.”

“Thanks,” Luke signs with quick hands. He bites his lip, “Wanna dance?”

“I am the opposite of a dancer,” Stiles signs and glances around for Rowan or Cora. “Never been one. I’m a sitter.”

“I could teach you,” Luke offers and he’s basically twinkling at Stiles, head tilted and mouth curved warmly.

“I don’t think anyone could,” Stiles signs and breathes a sigh of relief when he spots Rowan moving towards him out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’m a very good teacher,” Luke signs and he reaches over to touch Stiles’ hand. “I want to dance with you even if I can’t teach you.”

“Stiles does not dance,” Rowan signs as he nudges in besides Stiles. “I’m pretty sure he’d level this place to the ground if he tried.”

“Thanks for coming,” Luke signs to Rowan and then turns his face back to Stiles.“If you don’t want to dance maybe I can get you a drink?”

“Our sister’s got it,” Rowan signs and exhales through his nose. He wraps an arm around Stiles’ neck and pulls him close, signs around his neck. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Not a problem,” Luke signs and his expression is just barely exasperated. “I’ll see you around, Stiles.”

“Later,” Stiles signs and Luke heads back to the other side of the party.

“That guy fuckin’ sucks,” Rowan says into Stiles’ ear. He’s growling in the back of his throat and Stiles pats his arm to soothe him. “Let's go play pong.”

***

When Stiles is drunk, he isolates. He heads outside or up the stairs to some secluded bathroom or on the roof. He has a skill for finding pockets of seclusion where he can recenter himself. 

He’s on the back porch with the light turned off. Someone’s strung up Christmas lights so there’s a soft glow in the air. He’s perched on the railing, leaned back against a pillar with his legs sprawled on either side of the railing. The party is raging, loud and overwhelming and he needs a moment. 

He doesn’t get it. 

Luke cracks the door open, face brightening when he spots Stiles. He closes the door behind him, holding a finger to his own mouth and exaggerating a tiptoe. 

“Your brother is scary,” he signs with slow movements.

“My sister is scarier,” Stiles jokes and leans his head back on the pillar. 

“I’m glad you came,” Luke signs and comes over to lean against the railing. His side touches Stiles’ knee and he looks over his shoulder at Stiles. 

“Thank the twins,” Stiles signs and sits up a little, moving his knee away from Luke. 

“I want to kiss you,” Luke signs, eyes half-lidded and he leans up towards Stiles. 

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Stiles signs, leaning back and Luke jerks back a little in surprise. 

“At all?” He asks and Stiles frowns at him. 

“At all,” he signs. 

Luke runs his fingers through his hair and moves back a few steps. 

“I’m sorry,” he signs and Stiles shrugs. 

“It’s okay,” he signs and Luke exhales slowly. 

“I’m going to go back inside,” he signs and then turns without waiting for an answer. 

Stiles sighs and lets his head thump on the pillar. People are impossible. He didn’t do a good job with this situation. 

Did he make Luke think he wanted to kiss him? 

If he wanted to kiss someone who would just tell them. But maybe people don’t do that. Maybe there are secret indicators that you want a kiss and Stiles accidentally tricked Luke. 

Should he apologize?

The door opens again and Cora comes out, brow furrowed. 

“You good, Stiles?” She asks, closing the door behind her. “Your heart is bouncing like a yo-yo.”

“Luke tried to kiss me,” he signs and she raises her eyebrows. 

“Don’t tell Rowan tonight,” she says and crosses the porch to hop up on the railing beside him. She puts her back against the pillar facing him and crosses her feet on the railing. “He brought wolfsbane booze and he’s already pretty worked up.”

“What does he think Luke is going to do? He’s like a baby deer,” Stiles asks and Cora shrugs. 

“Sober-Rowan knows Luke is harmless. He’s just overprotective. It’s Rowan. He’s a mad wolf sometimes,” Cora says and she looks out, away from the house. “Sometimes I wonder why mom named him after mountain ash. Like--is it a joke?”

“Mountain ash is a barrier? Maybe he’s supposed to be a guard,” Stiles signs. “A protector of the Pack. Keeps bad stuff away.”

“It’s like naming a human ‘obstacle’,” Cora says and she closes her eyes. “He lives up to it, either way.”

“Are you guys fighting?” Stiles signs when she opens her eyes again, face scrunched up. The twins only bicker. Never fight.

“No,” Cora says in a funny voice. “He’s just being really--really stupid. He’s--like, trying to mess stuff up.”

“Stuff like what?” Stiles asks and Cora shakes her head. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says and Stiles feels a jump of anger in his stomach. 

“You guys are keeping something from me?” He asks and she puts her face in her hands. 

“I’m drunk,” Cora says and slides off the railing. “Come inside with me. I’m about to hustle some human’s at arm wrestling. We can talk about this when my brain isn’t being actively poisoned.”

Stiles squints at her but gives into her impassive eyebrows. They head back into the party and she does in fact hustle several basketball players out of money, a pack of gum and a snapback with Bart Simpson embroidered on the front. 

She ends up leaving him to dance with some girl with long black curls and amazing dimples and Stiles leans against the wall and peels the hangnails off his fingers. Rowan reappears from wherever he’d been, shirt wrinkled and a healing hickey high on his throat. 

“Bro,” he says in greeting. “I just got mauled by a Kappa Phi chick. She really knew her way around a bathroom counter.”

“You’re gross,” Stiles signs but he smiles either way. “You’re honestly a foul creature. The moon has turned you into a depraved beast. Bad Rowan. If I had a newspaper--”

Rowan laughs, head thrown back and Stiles smiles up at him, full of affection. This is his Pack. This is his solace in a crowded world. It all melts away, the noise and heat and energy, and he reaches out to press a hand to Rowan’s chest. He shapes his hand against Rowan’s heart, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Tarzan,” Rowan says, head tilted and smile softening to a gentle curve. 

Stiles leans his head back against the wall, chin up and a smile resting on his own face. Rowan takes another sip from his flask and Stiles lets himself forget the almost-kiss and the awkwardness and tucks himself away into Rowan, drawing him into a conversation about the new Joker movie that he knows Rowan can talk about for hours. 

It’s better when Rowan leads the conversation. He watches Cora dance with the dark-haired girl and listens to Rowan talk and feels almost okay. 

***

Days later, Stiles is stealing out of the living room and Rowan is asleep on the couch. 

Rowan’s cell phone is burning a hole in Stiles’ pocket. He puts his hand over it, traces the line through his jeans and leaves the apartment as quietly as he can. 

He’s on his motorcycle, speeding out of their garage and towards the middle of nowhere as fast as he can. He pushes his motorcycle to the limit, careening around corners and weaving in and out of traffic. He’s headed for a park up the highway, named after some woman he’s never heard of and isolated from everyone who would care where he’s gone. He comes here when he needs to feel dirt under his feet and pine needles on his skin. 

It’s bare of cars, thankfully, when he arrives and he peels into the parking lot with a spray of gravel. He parks his bike, hangs his helmet off his bike. The trail that starts in the parking lot meanders, forking and twisting over a five-mile loop. Stiles isn’t hiking the entire loop, just heading to a bridge half-way up the trail that lays suspended over a rushing creek. 

He picks his way there, through brush and off the trail, until he comes out a few yards from the bridge. It’s older, decades of wear and moss-growth, but it’s sturdy and he can sit on the planks and hang his feet over the edge. 

It’s here, on this beloved bridge, that he pulls Rowan’s phone out and unlocks it. 

Pulls up the contacts. Scrolls down. Passed the ‘L’ section and the ‘O’ section. Right to ‘P’. 

There he is. 

Peter. 

Stiles presses his contact, pulls up the number and sucks in a sharp breath at the profile icon. 

It’s him. Smiling and strong and everything in the world Stiles needs to feel right.

Stiles realizes he’s crying, doubled over on his bridge with tears dripping down onto his lap. He presses the phone to his chest, turns his chin up and peers at the tree tops. 

This is a part of himself he has been stifling, pressing down and suffocating every day since He left. Because if he looks into this pit—if he lets himself ask—then how does he get out?

If he opens up the question—how could he leave me? How does he close it back down?

His breath catches in his chest, scratching on the way out and he leans back until he can sprawl on the bridge. He lets his arms splay out, phone in his right hand and he watches the branches above him sway. 

If Peter really loved him, _ how could he leave? _

Stiles lets his eyes blur with tears, lets the world dissolve before him. 

There was something wrong with him. Something he’s missing that Peter needed him to have. If he’d done something different, it would have been enough to keep Peter. 

These feelings are kept quiet for a reason. Because they are so fucking cavernous that Stiles is afraid he’ll never be able to crawl back out. 

It was supposed to be a different kind of love—a love that Stiles had fought for.

Some nights he’d lay on the kitchen floor, thinking of the things he’d gone through just to be found by Peter. How every river bend and snow drift that night has driven him straight to Peter. And whatever God had been looking down on him that night had finally shown him just a little bit of light. 

He’d fought for a love that was never tenuous or delicate. He loved Peter that way, completely and violently.

He loved Peter when he was mean and cold. Stiles loved when Peter yelled or went silent. Stiles loved even when he left. 

There wasn’t a single thing Peter could have done that would have made him leave. 

He’s laying here, crying alone in yet another crop of trees, wishing so desperately just to be allowed back to Peter.

It’s not fair, he articulates finally, anger searing his eyes dry. It’s not fair that Peter showed him what love really, really was and took it away. It’s not fair that Peter kept his nightmares away and made him safe. It’s not fair that he would do _ anything _for Peter and he could just—

He could just leave. He could just drive away. 

Stiles had watched, dry-eyed and on the edge of bolting, up in the twin’s bedroom. He’d pressed his face against the glass and wished with every fiber of his being to just phase through and somehow be in the car with Peter. 

Leaving to anywhere as long as he could curl up beside Peter. He wanted to curl up _ inside _Peter—tuck himself away from view and stay pressed between Peter’s rib cage and his heart. 

But he didn’t get to. Doesn’t get to. 

He lifts the phone, presses the call button with a steady hand and holds the phone to his ear. 

It rings—once—twice—

“_Hello, Rowan. _”

Stiles is silent, not even breathing. His breath is stuck, high in his lungs, and he has started shaking. 

“_Rowan? Did you pocket-dial me? _”

Stiles must make some sound, an exhale or a gasp, because Peter sucks in a breath. 

“_Stiles? Is—are you there? _”

Tears clot Stiles’ vision, big fat ones, and his throat burns with what can only be the roughest sadness he’s ever felt. 

He wants to scream or yell or just answer—but it’s all caught in his ruined larynx. 

“_I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. I wish I could see you right now _,” Peter says, voice thick and Stiles tries desperately to force his lungs to work. 

He can’t move past the hitch of an inhale, gasping for air and rotating over and over through a failed restart of his breathing. 

“_ You’ve got to calm down, _” Peter says and Stiles becomes furious, anger replacing the panic like alcohol soaked gauze on a wound. 

He throws the phone into the creek. 

Bounds to his feet, kicks the bridge post, tears leaves from the trees, wordless shouts moving from his like sharp breaths. 

Eventually, hours or minutes later, he calms. He’s tired—to the bone— and just wants to rest. 

He feels like the girl from those vampire movies Cora had shown him. Maybe he can find a log to hide behind, lay down in a yellow rain slicker and hide there until someone finds him and takes him home. The idea of walking back out of this forest is daunting and seems impossible. 

He goes back to his spot on the bridge and lays on it again, stretches his hands up over his head. 

He loses himself in nothing specific, drifts through a thick cloud until the sky fades from blue to a stormy grey. Coastal weather is fickle, volatile and ramshackle.

Stiles likens himself to the storm. 

The rain comes, it always does. And he stays on the bridge until his skin is numb and rubbery and his clothes are soaked through. He can’t see through the rain dripping over his eyes and he likes it better that way. 

Maybe there will be another flood, he thinks bitterly, and it will take him even further away. Somewhere he’s never been or heard of and he can pretend to be happy and normal. 

Maybe everyone will sign there and he can tell them all of his thoughts and be heard and no one will sigh when they have to pause their stupid YouTube videos for him to ask where the fucking laptop charger is. 

But, maybe, Stiles can just get up and take himself there. The idea zaps him, electric and enticing, and he stands and heads back down the trail towards his bike. 

It’s still pouring rain and he puts his helmet on as an afterthought, starting his bike and jetting out into the road. He’s faster now, spurring his bike on and taking his turns with rushes of adrenaline. On one turn, he feels perpendicular to the ground, has to fight down the urge to reach down and scrape his fingers on the pavement. 

He’s surging onwards, over taking cars and semis and rushing on-on-ononon_ on _when he turns wrong, slides over the rain sloughing off the road and spins out. 

He has a moment of serenity, arcing off the road into the shoulder. He stays on the bike longer than he expects to, slipping off it when it jackknifes against the guard and he’s thrown clear. His helmet makes a scraping noise--like chalk on concrete with the bass turned up--and he lays in a daze. 

He’s come out ahead of the other cars and he has time to collect himself, get out of the road and pull his bike upright. Stagnant in thought, he climbs back on and kicks it into gear. 

It starts. He turns his bike around heads back towards home. 

***

“Jesus Christ,” Cora seethes, careening into the entryway. Her beta form is on, she’s shifted and pissed and staring him down with yellow wolf eyes. “Where the _ fuck _have you been?”

“Riding,” Stiles signs with a dull motion. He’s still looped, picturing the sky and ground flipping over one another as he slid off the road. 

“What happened to your helmet?” Rowan asks, hand pressed to his throat like he’s a modest older woman. 

Stiles looks down at, forces his eyes to see the helmet and not the guardrail that barely kept him from careening into a ditch. The left said has been ground down. Grated off by the road. 

“I had an accident,” he signs and Cora whirls away from him, hair whipping over her shoulder. 

“An accident? Peter--”

“Peter called us,” Cora says, whipping back. “Did he say something? That made you--Be unsafe?”

“Are you okay?” Rowan asks, right after. “After the call--and--and the accident. “

“I’m fine,” Stiles signs and drops the helmet. It clunks on the floor, tries to roll and settles onto the ground-down flat side. “I want to party. Tonight.”

Cora and Rowan share a twin-conversation, condensed into a single glance. 

“Alright,” Cora says and purses her lips. “We got invited to one--”

“By Cora’s girlfriend,” Rowan says, a facsimile of teasing. Stiles can hear the false brightness and he appreciates the motion if not the fallacy. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Cora shoots back. She’s worse at faking happy, hands on her bony hips and brows furrowed. She stalks down the hallway and scents Stiles, rubs her face into his neck and pulls him close. 

He leans into her embrace, sets his chin against her forehead and meets Rowan’s eyes over her. Rowan looks worried, face equally furrowed, and he crosses his arms under Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles pushes her back, just a little, and signs, “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“You can both go to Hell,” Cora says, rolling her eyes and then she’s charging into Stiles’ bedroom. He hears his closet open. “Come on. We should leave soon. It’s out in the boonies.”

“The B-O-O-N-I-E-S,” Stiles signs, smiling at Rowan. “Save a horse.”

Rowan snickers, jumps onto an imaginary horse, rides it into Stiles’ bedroom, and pretends to spin a lasso. He sings in a terrible southern accent, “Ride a cowboy.”

Stiles follows, laughing at the expression on Cora’s face and Rowan’s exaggerated country singing. 

***

The party is perfect. 

Loud, angry, overwhelming. It’s out in a giant Victorian house, there’s a live band on the landing of the second floor and the sprawling first floor is packed with bodies. Cora and Allison (the not-girlfriend) immediately couple off, leaving Stiles and Rowan to take a handful of shots and join the dancing masses. 

Stiles can’t get a moment to himself, can’t string a thought together. He’s in the middle of a mosh pit, pressed between countless sweaty bodies and losing himself in the music and the heat. 

It’s not until he breaks free to drink more and finds Cora beside a dent in the wall, with Allison petting her shoulder and speaking softly, that he comes back into his body. 

“What happened?” He signs and Allison follows his fingers carefully. 

“Nothing,” Cora sighs and visibly shakes off her anger. “This mother_ fucker _won’t stop slapping my ass. I think he wants a fight.”

“Our New Year’s Resolution is to maul less humans,” Stiles says, smiling over his hands and Cora tilts her chin back and rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. 

“Yes, Mom,” she sasses and Allison smiles awkwardly. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” she says to Stiles and he nods and sticks out his hand. 

“This is Stiles,” Cora says and gestures between them. “Brother o'mine, meet Ally. Ally, meet Stiles.”

“Nice to meet you,” Allison says and shakes his hand. 

He raises his eyebrows and nods again. Waves hello. 

“I’m sorry that I don’t know any sign language,” she says and Stiles waves a hand. 

“He’s used to it,” Cora says and blows her bangs out of her eyes. “Let’s dance again.” 

Allison dimples cherubically at her and Stiles follows them back into the fray. He eventually ends up jostled beside Rowan and they peel off to hydrate. They’re leaning on the staircase, downing bottled water when Rowan frowns.

Something catches his attention and he swivels his head, distracted. “Do you know that guy?”

Stiles turns, squints across the crowd and shakes his head. He can’t pinpoint who Rowan is talking about. 

“He’s staring at you and his heart is going crazy. He’s breathing--weird--wrong,” Rowan says and Stiles finally spots the guy. 

Some hidden mechanism in his brain snaps awake and he’s shoving his way through the crowd, elbowing and scrabbling to get across the crowd. Stiles doesn’t even know what he’s doing until he’s on the ground beside the guy, reaching into the dude’s pocket and pulling an inhaler free. 

“Stiles?” The guy asks through choked breaths, mid-asthma attack, and Stiles presses the inhaler into his hand. Stiles’ face is screwed up, he’s wildly searching his memories for who this person is. 

A hand touches Stiles’ shoulder and he turns, that hyped up energy making him ready to fight, but it’s just Cora. Allison is behind her, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. 

“I have first-aid training,” Allison says and she tucks her spiralling curls behind her ear and kneels beside Stiles’ and the guy. She moves his hand with the inhaler up to his mouth. Finally, the guy takes hit from his inhaler and his breathing settles in his chest.

It all clicks for Stiles. 

Stiles reaches out, moves the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal a curved scar on the guy’s forearm from his ulna piercing the skin. Stiles’ eyes trace to crooked jaw and the dark mop of hair. Their eyes meet and it all falls into place. 

Scott. 

His eyes prickle then, he’s absolutely sure. 

Scott.

“I thought you were--I can’t believe--Stiles?” Scott asks and Stiles can’t restrain himself, he practically tackles Scott with a hug. Scott returns the embrace just as fiercely and Stiles can hear the hitch in his breath. 

“McCall,” Cora says, recognition in her voice. “Well, damn.”

“Cora? Rowan?” Scott says over Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles sits back on his heels then, wiping his eye with the heel of his palm. “Stiles--dude--I thought you were. Gone. I thought you were gone. Holy shit.”

“Not gone,” Cora says and she rubs a hand over Stiles back. “He can’t--he can’t speak though.”

“What? At all?” Scott asks and he looks between them. His eyes finally land on Stiles’ scar and Stiles raises a self-conscious hand to it. “Oh, dude.”

“Are you okay?” Allison cuts in, raising two fingers and pressing them to Scott’s pulse. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“Yeah--no. I’m okay. Thanks,” he says and his head swivels between her and Stiles. “I gotta get your number.”

“Mine?” Allison asks and Scott flushes.

“No--Well, yes--if you want--but--,” Scott says and Cora snorts. 

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Cora says and Scott flushes. “Still a dork.”

“Neither have you,” he says and climbs to his feet. “You’re still mean. I remember I had to cut all my hair because you stuck your gum on the back of my head.”

“I did you a favor,” Cora says with a pointy smile, eyeing Scott. “Maybe I should give you a rerun.”

“I like his hair,” Dimples says and reaches over to brush it out of his eyes. She then reaches over to pick up a lock of Cora’s and twist it around her finger before letting go. “I like yours too.”

“Okay--Come on. You’re both pretty,” Rowan interjects, hand a grounding force on Stiles’ back. “Everyone can share numbers. What are you doing here, McCall?”

“I’m in the Social Work program at Lost Coast State,” Scott says. “Do you guys go there?”

“Yeah,” Cora answers. “How have we never seen you? We’re at all the parties.”

“I work full-time,” Scott says, a little awkwardly. “I don’t have time for parties usually.”

“That explains it,” Cora says. “God, what a trip.”

“You guys all know each other? I’m Allison. By the way,” she says and Scott shakes her hand. 

“We went to elementary together but—,” Rowan starts. 

“It’s been awhile,” Cora finishes and cocks a hip out. 

“Yeah, like over a decade,” Scott agreed. 

“I don’t think I’d recognize a single person from elementary school,” Allison says, looking between them all. 

“It’s—I remember everything from fifth grade,” Scott says, face turning tragic in the flashing party lights. “I couldn’t forget a minute.”

Stiles reaches over, puts a hand on Scott’s arm. He looks at Rowan and signs, “Tell him I missed him. More than anything.”

“Anything?” Rowan signs in return, mouth tight, but he switches to verbal when he looks at Scott. “Stiles says he missed you more than anything.”

“I missed you so much,” Scott says in a rush. “I didn’t think you were still— I can’t believe you’re standing here.”

Rowan looks at Stiles, translates as smoothly as he can from Stiles’ signs, “He says that—he thought of you everyday. You were—a reason to keep going.”

“What happened to him?” Scott asks and Rowan shifts a little on his feet.

“You can ask him,” Rowan says. “He can hear you. But he probably doesn’t want to talk about it here.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles signs carefully, waits for Scott to understand. Then Stiles pulls out his phone, the newest iPhone (courtesy of the Hales)with heavy cracks (courtesy of Stiles). He unlocks it with his face and pokes around until he finds the messaging app. He offers it to Scott. 

“Oh, yeah,” Scott says and quickly puts in his information. He sends off the text and hands Stiles back his phone. 

Stiles looks down at the messages. There, in little black letters. Scott. 

“Can we go somewhere?” Scott asks. “And talk? I want to know everything.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, looking at Cora and Rowan for grounding. He types into his phone and turns it to show Scott. 

_ The Pantry? _

The Pantry is a local, 24-hour diner in town. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, beaming. “Right now?”

_ I think you have another number to get first, _Stiles types into his phone and shows it to Scott. Scott blushes and turns to Allison. 

“Can I get your number?” Scott asks Allison and she smiles at him, pretty as a picture. 

“Yes,” she says and Scott pulls out his phone this time. 

Stiles turns towards the twins just in time to see some asshole walk by and crack his hand over Cora’s ass, slapping it hard enough that he can hear it over the music. Something inside Stiles’ splinters, just enough, and all the rage he felt on the bridge earlier returns ten-fold. It slithers into him like sand through an hourglass and he’s launched himself at the guy, socking him in the face with as much force as he can muster. 

The guy staggers back a few steps, but he was here for a fight, and he almost smiles when he rocks back and slugs Stiles’ square in the nose. Stiles’ head jerks back and he can feel the dull-throbbing of a broken bone. It’s escalated in an instant, both of them landing hit after hit. 

He feels Cora grab him, only holding him enough that he can’t wriggle free. Rowan’s got the guy and, together, the twins cart them outside. Stiles is still mindless, lost in the anger and feeling rabid. Cora and Rowan drop them Stiles snarls at the guy. He can feel blood and spit sluicing down his chin and he spits it out. 

The fight starts anew on the front lawn.The guy does some kind of boxing footwork and darts a jab at Stiles again. Stiles shakes his head like a mad dog and tackles the guy around the middle. The guy is good, he obviously fights a lot, but he’s not willing to go where Stiles is.

He can’t go where Stiles is. 

In a series of blood smeared flashes, Stiles ends up sitting on the guy’s chest and pounding him in the face. Stiles is exhausted, only punching because he can’t understand how to stop. His hits are slowing and the guy’s face is a mess. Arms wrap around Stiles’ chest, under his armpits, and pull him off the guy. 

Stiles is too tired to fight, slack in what he assumes is one of the twin’s arms. His nose fucking hurts. Then he is turned to face the twins and Scott and Allison. The twins look proud, chins up with mean smiles on their faces. Allison looks blank, no emotion whatsoever on her china-doll face. 

Scott is horrified, hands pressed to his face and eyes shocked. 

Stiles cranks his head up, panting hard and there’s some guy he’s never seen in his life holding him up. The guy--the man-- is looking down at him with a questioning expression, eyebrows raised to ask ‘are you done?”. 

Stiles writhes out of his arms, turning to face him fully. He’s blond-and-salt-and-pepper. Blue eyes like morning glories. He’s strong, solid and visibly wary of Stiles.

Stiles is a little gobsmacked. 

“You’re a winning elk,” he signs, wavering on his feet and the twins do support him then. Cora under one arm and Rowan under the other. 

“I’m an elk?” The guy asks and Rowan scoffs. 

“You know ASL?”

“No. Just...just some hunting signs. Did he say I’m an elk?”

“A winning elk,” Stiles signs, pulling his arms from around the twins necks. He wobbles towards the man. “Winning.”

“Dad, can we go?” Allison asks, stalking towards him with her arms crossed. 

“Sure, Ally,” he says and pauses before following her to a large black SUV. “I think your friend is concussed. Maybe has a broken nose.”

“Don’t leave,” Stiles signs and his chest jumps with an inaudible giggle. The man walks closer, grips Stiles chin in his hand. Stiles’ mouth falls open, bloody spit slips down his chin and Allison’s dad takes his nose in between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Inhale,” he says and Stiles does, gazing blearily up at him. There’s blinding, white-hot pain and Stiles almost throws up. Then the pain is gone from his nose and Allison’s dad is backing away, wiping Stiles’ blood on his jeans.

“Thanks,” Cora says tersely and she pulls Stiles back to her. 

They corral him away with Stiles craning to watch Allison’s dad walk over to his SUV. It’s dark but he’s sure that the man is looking back at him. 

“Scott,” Rowan says carefully. “I--I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“He’s not always--Well--,” Cora tries.

“He’s still dealing with what happened,” Rowan finishes. “He’s trying.”

“He’s right here,” Stiles signs and nobody who can understand him sees. He tucks his hands under his armpits. 

“I get it,” Scott says and he takes a faltering step towards Stiles. Stiles watches him carefully, tilts his head to the side. Scott walks closer, pulls Stiles into a tight huy. “I get it. It’s okay. I’m so--happy isn’t a big enough word. Stiles, I missed you so much.”

Stiles wraps around him, smelling him like a wolf would and he ends up sucking in a small gush of blood. He pulls away and leans over to cough, splatters his blood into his own hands. 

His hands are covered in blood on both sides, his and the guys. He peers over to where he left the other man on the lawn. The guy is gone, obviously well enough to leave, and Stiles sighs from relief. He coughs again and more blood fills his mouth. He spits it on the ground and finds the twins with his eyes. He lifts his bloody hands to sign.

“Can we go home?” 

***

Rowan stays with him while he showers, curtain open and water splattering on the floor. He has big, sad eyes the entire time and Stiles reaches out at one point to rub his hand over Rowan’s neck. 

“I love you,” Rowan says. “I worry about you.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles signs and lets Rowan pull a towel around him. He’s guided to Rowan’s bed and tucked in naked, after Rowan dries him. He’s drunk or concussed or both and he appreciates the kind hand. 

Cora comes in a brushes a kiss over his forehead, leans down to scent him fully. He can hear her talk to Rowan and Scott in the living room as he drifts off. 

Seventy-five percent of his favorite people all in one room.

Stiles falls asleep. 


	2. too much your hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: unsafe driving

Derek’s shoulder works in even circles, buffing out the deep gouges Stiles had run through his bikes’ paint job. Derek is still in his brown-stripe deputy trousers but he’s shed his overshirt to work in a white a-line. Stiles is offering moral support. 

Poorly.

He’s actually pushed all of the tools from the top of the workbench and draped himself over it. He’s nursing two brutal black eyes, a split lip and a myriad of other wounds. He’s back in Beacon Hills for the long weekend. He’s miserable, achy and sore, and the Hales are generally disappointed in him. 

The twins are proud but they’re also more blood-thirsty than the rest of the pack. Talia has drawn his pain while he slouches on the couch, head in her lap and her hand warm on his forehead. But she also lectured him pretty firmly when she saw him. 

“Hand me the finer grit pad,” Derek says, voice barely louder than the radio. It’s playing Derek music--a.k.a. 70’s ballads. 

Billy Joel croons and Stiles tosses the sandpaper across the garage. Derek catches it without turning his head and deftly switches to the finer grit. 

He works steadily, changing to two finer grits before applying a new layer of primer. They eat sandwiches while they wait for it to dry and Derek corrals him onto the front porch. Stiles is sullen, pulling his sandwich into parts and eating them separately. He nibbles the lettuce dully, peering out into the woods and Derek clears his throat. 

“I won’t pretend to understand college libidos,” Derek starts and Stiles peers at him distrustfully. Derek presses on, face tinted pink. “Anyways. I heard someone tried to kiss you and so you crashed your bike and got the piss kicked out of you.”

“No,” Stiles signs and sneers at Derek. “It’s not connected. It all just happened.”

“That’s kind of the problem,” Derek says and he takes another bite to fill the silence. “Things just happen to you. You react. But life isn’t supposed to just happen. You’re not--you’re not living.”

“I don’t need this from you,” Stiles signs and Derek sets his sandwich down. 

“You need it from someone. And the twins are too codependent and Laura is busy at work so I’m stepping up. You’re faded. Dull. There’s no lights on, Stiles,” Derek says and Stiles rears back. 

His harsh expression tears a cut on his lip and the sharp sting brings him back into his body a little. Derek loves him. He’s not trying--not trying to hurt him. 

“You need to do things you like  _ because  _ you like them,” Derek continues and he reaches over to grab Stiles pickle, munches it. “What do you like to do?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Stiles asks. “I didn’t ever think I’d get this far. I never thought about it.”

“Yeah,” Derek says and he grabs Stiles’ other pickle. “But now you have to.”

“How do you decide?” Stiles asks and he pulls his knees up to his chest. “How do you know?”

“You just have to try stuff. And if it makes you smile, you do it again,” Derek offers. 

Then, he moves in on Stiles’ tomatoes. 

***

Stiles skips Wednesday’s meeting. He avoids the library altogether, arching across campus towards his bike. He’s a few yards away when he spots someone leaning on it, their back to him. 

He doesn’t recognize them until he circles around the bike. It’s the man from the party--the winning elk. 

Stiles waves to him, approaching and the man stands up and crosses his arms. 

“You’re still all banged up,” he says and Stiles reaches up to touch one of his bruised eyes. 

He pulls a notebook from his bag.

_ My nose is alright. Thank you.  _

“My pleasure,” he says and looks Stiles up and down, appraising something that escapes Stiles. “I don’t know how much you recall. I’m Chris, Allison’s dad.”

_ I remember _

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in ICU somewhere. Have a good day, Mr. Stilinski,” Chris says and starts to walk away. 

Stiles chases, grabs his arm. 

_ How about I buy you lunch? You can tell me how you know my name and what my bike looks like _

Chris doesn’t look delighted, chin raised just a little, but Stiles waggles his notebook winningly and Chris purses his lips. 

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” he hedges and Stiles shrugs. “And I’m not stalking you.”

_ Methinks the DILF doth protest too much _ , Stiles scrawls and Chris frown at him. 

“Don’t make me regret this before it starts,” he says and Stiles nods and holds his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know what a...DILF is for sure but I know I don’t like being called that.”

_ My ride or yours? _

“Mine,” Chris grouses and leads Stiles to a black SUV parked nearby. It’s sterile inside, wiped and cleaned to a point of obsession and Stiles almost feels guilty clunking his dirty sneakers into it. He sets his bag on the floorboard and pulls one leg up to his chest, chews his fingernails and peers into the driver’s seat at Chris. 

He pulls his phone out, remembering something, and redownloads a familiar app. It’s a text-to-speech app he’s used...before. 

“If you aren’t stalking me and you don’t want to have sex with me why do you know all my info,” a posh, British accent asks from Stiles’ phone. 

“Lord,” Chris breathes, peering at the ceiling and then peeling out of the parking lot. “I know your information because I look into all the hooligan’s my daughter runs around with. And you were more pulp than person by the end of that fight. I wanted to be sure I didn’t need to contact the police with cause of death.”

“Sure thing boss,” Stiles’ phone says, still crisply British. “But how did you figure out who I was? Allison didn’t know my whole name.”

“She knew you were from Beacon Hills,” Chris says, changing lanes without signaling. Someone honks behind them and Stiles leans over to peer into the rearview mirror. Chris changes again, just as abruptly and Stiles is pressed against his shoulder for a split second due to inertia. “And she knew you went by Stiles. That plus all the news articles pieced it together.”

“You know about my woodland adventures,” the phone says for Stiles.

“And I know you run with...Hales,” Chris says, delicate in his needling. He turns to look at Stiles and raises an eyebrow. “I hope you invested in Febreze.” 

“What?” Stiles asks, thrown by the non-sequitur. 

“Living here with all the rain--Wet dog smell really soaks into furniture,” he says and watches Stiles react. 

Stiles doesn’t type anything into the phone, chin down and eyes on Chris. His heart is pounding in his ears. He’s frozen in place, waiting for something--anything-- to happen.

Eventually, Chris looks back at the road and veers them across traffic to take a sudden turn. 

“Nothing to say? Good,” Chris says and he turns on the radio. It’s playing some obnoxious metal and Stiles sits back in his seat and wonders if he’s about to get killed. Wonders why he’s excited and why he’s half-hard in his sweats. 

Chris pulls into the parking lot of a local pizza place, Babe’s, and gets out. He stands in front of the SUV and smiles with sharp, pointy white teeth at Stiles. 

He’s unbearably handsome, tan and blonde and blue and so very dangerous. Stiles gets out of the car. 

Chris buys them buffets and shoves a plate and cup into Stiles’ stomach, then steers him towards the hot tables. There’s too many types of pizza--too many options--and so Stiles waits and picks what the person before him picks. He trails after Chris to the soda’s and gets himself a water. 

It’s all a little absurd, sitting across from a hunter--or another wolf--or something--and watching them eat pizza with a fork. 

“You’re a serial killer,” Stiles signs, faltering when he remembers Chris can’t understand him. Chris pauses his chewing, waits for Stiles. Stiles puts the phone on the table and types his snark into the app. “You’re a serial killer who uses a fork on pizza?”

“I don’t like getting my hands dirty,” Chris says and takes a neat bite. 

“That’s a goddamn lie,” Stiles types and Chris rewards him with a smile. 

“It might be. But we are here to talk about you and your Hales,” Chris says and takes a drink from his cup. He chews noisily on ice and Stiles scrunches his forehead up. “You’re still bruised up. So, you aren’t a were. They didn’t bite you.”

“No,” Stiles types. “Nobody has bitten a human in the Hale pack.”

“That’s very good,” Chris says and takes another fastidious bite of his pizza. “We’d have a problem if they did.”

“Are you threatening my pack?” Stiles types, leaning over the table and picking a pepperoni off Chris’ slice. He pops it in his mouth, grinning lazily when Chris dumps the pizza on Stiles’ plate. “We’d have a problem if you did.”

“I’m not threatening anyone. My family has a treaty with the Hales. As long as no innocent blood is spilled, then there can be peace.”

“Those people are the best kind there is,” Stiles types and takes a big bite. 

“Those people aren’t people,” Chris says and chews more ice. “They’re monsters. And you’re just as bad.”

“Why is that?” Stiles types and sits back against the back of the booth. 

“Well, actually, I can’t figure out which one is fucking you. The big one or the little one?”

Stiles snarls, soundlessly but violent, and shoves their dishes on to the ground. The plates are plastic and just clatter, but the restaurant goes silent. 

“You’ll watch your fucking mouth,” Stiles signs furiously into Chris’ mildly surprised face. “I’m done here.”

Stiles knows if he stays another moment he’s going to start smashing everything in sight, so he leaves. He walks out of the pizza joint but once he’s outside he’s running. He can’t be more than a few miles from his home so he starts in the direction he thinks it’s in. 

He gets four or five blocks away when he realizes he’s left his bag in the car and his phone in Babe’s. He presses on, slowing and wrapping his arms around himself. The weather is turning again and it feels right that he’s being punished for thinking with his dick. 

The rain starts and he doggedly marches forward, tightening his embrace around his middle and squinting against the rain. The town is always a little dreary, paint on buildings aged by the briny air and the sidewalk warped by tree roots pressed under them. In the rain it seems ultimately depressing, sallow and faded and cold. 

Stiles is cold. The rain is biting and he still has blocks and blocks to go. He hears a car pull up behind him as the rain really lets loose and he can tell by the motor that it’s a big car. 

“Get in,” Chris calls over the rain out the open passenger window. He’s rolling alongside Stiles, holding up traffic like an asshole. 

Stiles is, coincidentally, also an asshole. He stays steady on his path. 

“Come on. Just get in,” Chris says and Stiles doesn’t look at him. 

“Just get in the car,” a second voice calls, irritated and loud. The people behind Chris are chiming in. 

“I’m sure he’s sorry,” a third voice adds and Stiles raises his eyebrows at Chris. 

“I am. I was out of line. Please, get in,” Chris concedes and Stiles makes him wait another few yards of honking and jeering before he crosses over to the car. “Thank you.”

Chris speeds off, turning and letting his unwilling caravan free. He passes Stiles his cell phone. 

“Look,” Chris says and tightens his hands on the steering wheel. “I misspoke. Please, don’t let this reflect on the Argents as a whole. I just--there’s bad blood between myself and the Hales. Let’s just say you aren’t the first human to bed a wolf.”

“I haven’t bedded anyone,” Stiles types, eyes watching Chris carefully. “I’m a virgin.” 

“Jesus,” Chris says under his breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I was really out of line.” 

“What wolf did you have sex with?” Stiles asks, curiosity overpowering his anger. 

“That’s not up for conversation.”

“Just so I’m clear--,” Stiles phone says and Chris rolls his eyes, exhales through his nose. “--you can take potshots at me in a pizza place about my pack and I can’t ask which random werewolf you expletive?”

Chris doesn’t answer and Stiles realizes they’ve pulled onto campus. He levels a suspicious look at Chris while he gathers his bag to his lap. Chris doesn’t look at him while he pulls up beside Stiles’ bike and Stiles responds in kind. 

Chris is pulling away before Stiles can close the car door and Stiles is irritated all over again. He’s mad he got ignored, he’s mad he had to use this stupid app, he’s mad that he has to ride in the rain. 

He’s mad he can’t stop thinking about Chris’ flinty eyes and his sharp teeth. 

***

His phone trills beside him, lighting up with a text message, and he peers at it curiously. Everyone in his address book is currently in the apartment. 

Scott and Cora are on the couch beside him, Rowan’s in the kitchen working on a paper that’s due at midnight in a few hours. Stiles has an immediate thrum of anxiety that makes Cora glance at him and he unlocks his phone with trepidation. 

**Chris: **

_ You should not be calling anyone a DILF to their face.  _

He sighs, disappointed and relieved at once. It’s been a few hours since Chris dropped him off on campus. But he must have entered his information before he gave Stiles’ phone back.

**Stiles:**

_ IDK what to tell you. Maybe if you got a gnarly scar or went bald you wouldn’t be a dilf _

“ _ Who  _ are you texting?” Cora asks, sitting upright with a start. Scott had been leaning on her shoulder, dozing, and he sits up rubbing his eyes. 

“Who is texting who? Why do we care?” Rowan calls from the kitchen. 

“You don’t get to know until you finish your essay,” Cora replies, eyes laser-focused on Stiles. “Who are you texting?”

“I don’t know how to tell you without it being weird,” Stiles signs and Cora makes an outraged noise. 

“Are you texting Luke? Spill. Right now,  Mieczyslaw Jonathon Stilinski.”

“No, no. It’s--A-L-L-Y’s dad,” he signs, cringing, and Cora rears back. 

“All--Ally--what? What did he say?” Scott asks and Cora peers at him with wide owl eyes. 

“What the Hell?” Cora asks and Rowan thunders into the living room. 

“He’s texting Allison?” Rowan asks and Cora shakes her head. 

“Ally’s dad. Why are you texting Ally’s dad?” Cora says and Scott and Rowan exchange bemused looks. 

His phone chirps again with a text and all eyes dart to it. 

“What does it  _ say _ ?” Scott asks, morbid curiosity overtaking his features. 

Stiles unlocks his phone. 

**Chris:**

_ You should be careful making claims you aren’t prepared to back up. Specifically, the ‘f’ portion of that acronym.  _

“He’s flirting!” Scott gasps, hands to his cheeks. 

Cora looks infuriated, then curious, then confused, all in a span of seconds. Rowan goes back into the kitchen and Stiles can hear the kitchen chair scrape violently against the floor. Typing noises resume, also violently. 

“You’re flirting with my girlfriend’s dad,” Cora tells Stiles and Scott drops his hands, looking at her strangely. 

“I think she’s my girlfriend,” he says slowly and Cora sighs before turning to Stiles.

“It’s twice as bad. You’re flirting with our girlfriend’s dad. That’s--I don’t think bro code even has a rule about this.”

“Why is it a big deal? You’re always telling me to date,” Stiles says and Cora reaches over to flick his earlobe. 

“I meant some cute junior. Not a forty-year old dad,” Cora says softly and Stiles shrinks in on himself. 

“We aren’t even--There’s nothing,” Stiles signs with tiny motions. “Isn’t he married?”

“I don’t know--Scott, is he married?”

“It’s not like it’s come up,” Scott sighs. “Wait, is she really your girlfriend?”

“I haven’t asked yet,” Cora says, shrugging. “But we’ve gone on lots of dates.”

“So have we,” Scott replies. He looks troubled. “Lots.”

“Cora,” Stiles signs, waving his hands. “Do you know she’s an A-R-G-E-N-T?”

“You’re kidding,” she snaps, flexes her hands. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

“That’s what he said,” Stiles signs and Cora’s eyes follow his hands like a hawk. “He wanted to be sure I wasn’t bitten.”

Scott has given up on trying to follow Stiles’ signing and lays back on the couch, staring wistfully at his phone. His wallpaper is a picture of him and Cora and Ally. Stiles watches him text someone. 

Cora stands silently, heading for the bedroom and slamming the door after her. A series of loud slamming follows, then silence. 

“Ally says she’s both of our girlfriend,” Scott says, turning his phone to show Stiles the emoji-laden transcript. “She thought we already knew.”

Cora stomps back out of the bedroom and kneels on the couch between them. She shoves her phone in Scott’s face. “Look.”

“Wait,” Scott shakes his head. “We’re in her bio?”

“How are we the last to know?” Cora asks and Scott shrugs. 

“D-does this mean…” Scott trails off. He’s bright pink, staring resolutely at some point on the wall behind Cora. “Are you my girlfriend?”

“This--fucking-- _ essay _ \--,” Rowan shouts, strangled, from the kitchen. 

“What about the hunting?” Stiles asks and Cora sucks in a slow breath, the jubilant and frenetic energy fades from the room. 

“I don’t know,” she says finally and Scott looks at them. 

“I gotta learn ASL faster,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, Stiles. Can you write that down or text it to me?”

“It’s personal,” Cora says. “Sorry. I have to talk to my parents about all of this. I don’t know if I can..do this.”

“Do what? The Ally thing or--or both?” Scott asks gently and Cora presses a hand to her mouth. 

“Both. I guess. I don’t know. I’m going to go for a walk. Rowan?” She stands, arms crossed and heads towards the kitchen. The twins talk quietly for a moment and then the front door opens and closes. 

Scott doesn’t know a lot of signs. But he does know one. 

“Shots?” Stiles asks and Scott nods, hopping up and heading for the kitchen. They have a booze cabinet and Stiles pulls down their vodka handle. 

Scott collects two shot glasses and the orange juice from the fridge and they pull themselves up to face each other, cross-legged, on the counter. 

“I don’t think it’s fair that I gained  _ two  _ girlfriends in one night and then lost one like thirty seconds later,” Scott says, gesturing into the apartment wildly. Stiles pours them each a shot and they shoot them as a mirror, tapping the glass twice on the counter and taking turns drinking juice from the carton. 

Stiles nods, upper lip curled. He makes a go-on motion and pours them another shot. 

“I know I’m not--like--a genius. But usually when someone is dating you there is a conversation at the start. Like, are you okay with dating two girls? Are you okay with me dating you both?” Scott continues. He grimaces after their next shot, taps twice and continues his rant without drinking chaser. “And like, Cora is dope. She’s awesome. I really like her. But I kind of thought she didn’t swing my way at all. Has she dated boys before?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. He pauses and makes a so-so motion. “Kinda.”

“And, for the record, I don’t know why you’d want to date Chris. He’s mean. I’m pretty sure he tripped me the other day when I was leaving the house. I can’t prove anything but I’m pretty fucking sure. Another, please.”

Stiles pours a third shot diligently and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Scott’s ahead of him, tapping already and Stiles rushes to catch up. 

“It’s totally okay with me if you do--uh. Date? Sleep with? What’s the move with Chris? Either way, it’s okay,” Scott says sincerely. “I mean he’s definitely way too old. So, like in your defense I am questioning his motive. But I support you.”

“I love you, bro,” Stiles signs and Scott grins.

“I am so happy you’re back in my life. I didn’t feel like—like a whole person. It felt like some piece was missing. I feel more me now that I know you’re alive,” Scott says and he pours the shots this time. 

Stiles grins, ducks his chin. His phone vibrates beside him. They both freeze and turn towards it. 

**Chris:**

_ Did the Hale girl really not know who Allison was? I didn’t think it was a secret.  _

**Stiles:**

_ She didn’t. Not everyone runs background checks _

**Chris:**

_ We have no problem with peaceful weres. Not sure if it means anything coming from me, but tell her that her pack is safe.  _

“Uh, what the hell does that mean?” Scott asks, peering at the phone. 

Ah. Fuck. 

Stiles slowly trains his gaze from his phone to Scott. He has literally no idea what to do. 

Stiles nods, purses his lips. 

Still completely at a loss. His phone buzzes again and Scott stares down at it.

**Chris:**

_ We hunt those who hunt us. Not teenage co-eds. _

“Hunt? Stiles, what does any of that mean?”

“Hold on,” he motions to Scott and sets his phone up against the edge of the fruit bowl and FaceTimes Talia. 

She answers quickly, smiling happily as the screen catches up. Her expression flickers—he must look rough.

“There is a lot going on,” he signs and she nods. Scott leans over to look at the screen. 

“Hello,” Talia says. “You must be Scott? The kids have told me so much about you.”

“Yes, hello. Um. Mrs. Hale, nice to meet you,” Scott says clumsily and Stiles becomes distinctly aware of his slipping sobriety. 

“Scott saw some text messages about wolves and hunting. He’s confused,” Stiles signs. 

“You want to tell him,” Talia gleans and smiles serenely. “You have my blessing. Any human my Pack has taken to so warmly must be special.”

“Thanks,” Scott says warmly and then pauses. “Human?”

“Thank you, Alpha,” Stiles signs. “I’ll call you tomorrow and debrief.”

“Have a good night, boys,” Talia says and disconnects the call. 

“Okay,” Stiles signs, mostly to himself. He pulls up his notes and types carefully. 

_ Werewolves are real. Cora and Rowan and most of the Hales are wolves.  _

“What?” Scott says, tilting his head and squinting. “What does that mean?”

Stiles underlines the werewolves part. 

“No shit. You’re a human?”

Stiles nods. 

“Woah. All those shots just hit me.  _ Werewolves.  _ Woah,” Scott breathes and he wobbles from side to side. “I gotta get off this counter.”

Stiles agrees, crawls off the counter carefully. His legs don’t want to move with him and he stumbles when his feet hit the ground. Scott seems to forget to unbend his legs and falls heavily against Stiles. 

He’s laughing and Stiles would be if he could make a sound. Either way, he’s wheezing and clutching Scott tightly. His friend is in on his secret and he feels something a lot like contentment. 

They collapse on the couch, shoulders knocked together and Scott leans his head on Stiles’ crown. 

“I’m glad you told me,” Scott says. “Don’t like secrets.”

Stiles nods against Scott’s cheek. 

It feels like something has settled tonight, sliding neatly into place in Stiles’ breastbone. 

It’s the best he’s felt in years.

He doesn’t reply to Chris’ texts.

***

He’s drunk again. 

They’re at some party and Scott is sandwiched between his two girls, delighted and sweaty. Rowan’s got some study group and Stiles feels the little sting of loneliness standing in the corner alone.

He bows out of the party, heads outside and when he spots a black SUV a thrum of electricity shoots through him. He approaches, hands in his pockets. He crosses in front of the SUV, glancing up into the windshield and making eye contact with Chris. 

He slinks up to the window Chris is rolling down, sticks his elbows up on the ledge. Chris settles back in his seat, tilts his chin back and looks down his nose at Stiles. 

“What do you want, trouble?”

Stiles rests his chin on his forearms, leans in the car a little bit more. He licks his lips, bites them and looks up at Chris. He’s nervous. He wonders if it shows. 

“Oh, no,” Chris says in a low, gravely voice that goes straight to Stiles’ stomach. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Stiles reaches a hand into his own pocket, pulls out his phone and loads his notes app. 

_ Is there a reason you’re always lurking around college parties? _

“Yeah,” Chris laughs. “Ally asked me to DD. For her and her sister wife. I guess they want Dairy Queen.”

_ Scotty isn’t invited? _

“I think that kid would piss himself if he had to eat ice cream across from me,” Chris says in a mild voice. “But he’s invited.”

_ Am I invited? _

“What’s your angle, trouble?”

_ No angle. I like sundaes _

“You like sundaes,” Chris repeats and grips the steering wheel in one hand. “Alright. How much longer do you think they’re going to be?”

_ Don’t know. In a rush to leave? _

“I guess not,” Chris says. “But it’s not like I want to spend all my time watching twenty-somethings puke in the bushes.”

_ We could go somewhere. Come back for them _

“You don’t understand what you’re asking,” Chris says and reaches over, ghosts his fingers along Stiles forearm. “And until you understand, I’m not interested in this. I’m too old to take anyone’s virginity.”

Despite his words, Chris’ hand lands on Stiles’ jaw and a smile curls over Stiles face. Chris’ thumb moves, just barely touching the corner of Stiles’ mouth. 

Stiles turns, holding Chris’ eyes, and presses his lips against Chris’ digit. Chris sucks in a breath and Stiles opens his mouth and licks. 

Slow and wet up the length of Chris’ thumb. He’s moving on instinct and need. Slides his mouth around the thumb and sucks. 

“Oh, you little fucker,” Chris breathes and curls his thumb into Stiles’ mouth. He pulls down the jaw, exposing Stiles tongue, pressing his thumb on the edge of Stiles’ teeth. 

Stiles hears Cora’s happy yell and starts to turn his head to look for her but Chris’ caress turns into a harsh grip and he holds him in place. Stiles fights the urge to bite and Chris pushes down more, forces Stiles to sink lower and look up further to meet his eyes. 

“You want to start something, you need to finish it,” Chris says matter-of-factly. “Follow through, Stiles. It’s important.”

Stiles nods. Spit is starting to pool on his lower lip and Chris releases the grip, slides his thumb through the drool. He pats Stiles sharply on the cheek and wipes his spit on his own jeans. Stiles steps back, away from the window and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Cora rocks into him from the side then and smacks a giant kiss on his cheek. 

“Hi, Stiles,” she cheers and lifts him off the ground in a big hug. He flails, trying to keep his erection away from her and she doesn’t seem to notice. She sets him down again and reaches in the window to shake Chris’ hand, obviously putting strength in it. “Mr. Argent.”

“Little Hale,” Chris says and smiles tightly. “You girls ready to go?” 

“Yes,” Cora says and turns to look for Allison. She’s moving across the yard in ankle boots, tripping and leaning on Scott. 

“Invite your boyfriend,” Chris says and glances at Stiles. “We can make it a group thing.”

“Sure,” Cora says, aware enough to sense the weird energy. “Stiles, you should come too.”

Then she darts off to pick up Allison and play hero, carrying her over the uneven terrain with ease. She talks to Scott over her shoulder, loud and happy in the night. 

“Get in,” Chris says, an echo of last week. Stiles does. He crosses in front of the SUV again, crawls into the passenger seat. He’s still half-hard and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

Chris looks at his lap, a smirk creeping over his face and he grips the e-brake in a blatantly suggestive manner. Stiles lets a hand fall against his inner thigh and the other reaches up the grab the handle above the door. 

Scott and the girls pile into the back with a loud chatter and Chris finally drags his eyes off Stiles and starts the car. 

***

**Stiles:**

_ What difference does it make if I’m a virgin  _

**Chris:**

_ All the difference.  _

** _Stiles:_ **

_ But why! Explain it _

**Chris:**

_ Where are you? _

A twang of anxiety shoots through Stiles and he sits up from laying in his bed. Then lust. Nerves. Excitement. All cycling through him, making his heart pound out of his chest. 

It’s been a week since the night at the Dairy Queen where he had avoided Chris’ eyes and stared at him in equally nerve-wracking turn. A week of texting, mostly in the middle of the night, and always sporadic. 

**Stiles:**

_ Home. My room _

**Chris:**

_ I know your girl wolf is at my house. How about the boy? _

**Stiles:**

_ Not home. Been busy I guess  _

**Chris:**

_ Invite me over. I’ll show you the difference. _

Stiles sucks in a reedy breath, presses a hand to his sternum. 

**Stiles:**

_ Come over  _

_ *** _

The buzzer goes off and Stiles makes his way over to the door. He’s been standing in the entryway, feeling like the floor is slipping out from underneath him. This is the most  _ alive  _ he’s felt this week. He buzzes Chris up then opens the door, stands in the doorway and waits. 

The elevator hums quietly and then, with a sliding noise, Chris is standing at the end of his hall. 

Stiles waves, his breath catches in his throat. Chris looks...smug. Self-assured he takes his time moving down the hallway and Stiles gets mad at himself when he realizes he’s just staring. 

“Evening,” Chris says and he gestures with a six pack of beer. “Hope I didn’t leave you waiting too long.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, gestures for him to come inside. Stiles has a white board now, bought it to help with Scott. Chris makes his way inside, looking around. He kneels in the entryway and unties his shoes, sets them aside and then stands again. 

“Bottle opener?” Chris asks and Stiles nods, leads him to the kitchen. 

Chris pops the caps off two bottles and offers one to Stiles. Stiles feels shy, docile, like a baby animal, when he takes it. His fingers brush Chris’ and he takes a pull immediately, eyes on Chris. 

Chris drinks as well, keeping eye contact even as his throat works. The air is electrified, Stiles feels a laugh bubbling in his chest and he stifles it with another swallow. 

“Show me around,” Chris says and Stiles holds up a finger, chugs the rest of his beer and pops another. “Slow down, Stiles. We have time.”

Stiles ignores the trill of delight and leads Chris further into the house. The living room is dark and Stiles has some random playlist going on the background. He leads Chris on towards Stiles bedroom. Chris backs into the room, eyebrows raised and their dwindling beers in his hand. He backs on to Stiles’ bed and leaves the beer on the floor. 

“So, this is where you sleep,” Chris says from his seat and glances around the room. He looks...indecent. He’s dressed in black jeans and a grey sweater that looks unbelievably soft. Stiles reaches out, hand shaking just barely, and presses it against Chris’ chest. He tosses the white board on the bed. 

The sweater  _ is _ soft and Stiles steps a little closer into the bracket of Chris’ legs. He presses his hand more firmly to Chris’ sweater, grabs it and pulls himself closer. 

Chris reaches up and fits his hand around Stiles’ throat casually, face steady but fingers biting. 

“You think I can’t tell how nervous you are? You’re crawling in my lap—begging for it—and you can’t even keep your hands steady,” Chris says and he stands up, holding Stiles’ neck over the scar all the while. 

Stiles swallows, panic bubbling up in him and Chris turns them. His hand moves down and shoves Stiles down on the bed, hard. 

“Pick up your board,” he says, velvet steel, and Stiles does. “Tell me what you want.”

Stiles sneers up at him, tosses the board off the bed and makes to stand up. Chris shoves him down again, leans and picks up the board again. He drops it on Stiles’ chest and steps back. 

“Go on,” Chris says and crosses his arms. The grey sweater does amazing things for his biceps and if Stiles’ wasn’t so annoyed he’d be trying to bite them. 

He uncaps the pen with his teeth, scrawls on his board and spits the cap over the edge of the bed. The pen gets dropped on his bed, immediately marking up the sheets. He flips his board around. 

_ I want you to have sex with me _

“And what does that mean?”

Stiles sighs and rubs his wrist over the words, writes again. 

_ We orgasm together  _

“There are a lot of ways two men can get off together,” Chris says and he licks his lips. “Sit up.”

Stiles complies, frowning a little. 

“Take off your shirt.”

Stiles balks then, he knows he’s not the most impressive of physical specimens. 

“How is someone going to get you off if you don’t even take off your shirt?” Chris asks, daring him. 

Stiles tears his shirt off and throws it in Chris’ face. He sits there, in his joggers, and wraps his arms around his bony middle. He’s got hip bones that stick out and you could count his ribs. His chest is sunken, he knows he’s not much. Malnourishment is a hard battle to fight. 

Chris crosses his arms again and rubs one hand through the scruff on his chin. He seems to think for a moment and then he speaks, “Do you feel sexy?”

“No,” Stiles signs and then shakes his head. 

“Do you think that would change in five minutes? Do you want to have sex right now?”

_ Is this just to humiliate me?  _ Stiles writes on the board furiously. He flips it around and jabs it at Chris. He wishes he hadn’t thrown his shirt. 

“No, Stiles,” Chris says.“I want you to understand what you’re getting into. Lotta guys are just going to take you to bed. And they don’t care if you feel sexy. They see you and take what they want.” 

_ I get it _ , Stiles writes and stares at the ground. He wants to punch Chris in the face. 

“I don’t think so,” Chris says. “I don’t think you understand. You’re vulnerable right now. Uncomfortable. Sex should make you feel good and happy. Maybe a little nervous. But overall--it should be equal.”

Chris sticks his thumbs into his belt loops and pins Stiles with a look. 

“Most sexual partners-- We’d have been kissing already. You’d know where I was at mentally. It wouldn’t be an imbalance. You shouldn’t be giving more than you take.”He sits on the bed, takes the board from Stiles. “The first time  _ I _ make you cum, I’m going to start with touching your shoulders.”

Stiles starts then, his eyes moving to meet Chris’ against his will. Chris places his hand on his own neck, up by his jaw, and slides it down to the ball of his shoulder. Stiles shivers watching it’s path and reaches up for his own neck. 

“I’m going to feel the muscles bunch and move. Touch the hollow of your throat,” he continues and his hand slides back over to trace fingertips over his collarbones. Stiles matches him and Chris drops his hands and leans in closer. His voice drops a register and he says in a honeyed tone, “And I’d pluck your nipples. Maybe, then I’d take off your shirt. Touch them more. Until they were hard and red. I’d put my teeth on them.”

Stiles sucks in a breath, follows the path of Chris’ words and he digs his fingernails into the nubs. His dick jumps in his joggers and Chris exhales evenly. 

“I’d want to kiss you next,” he says and reaches out to press two fingers to Stiles’ lips. Stiles kisses them, hands still working on his chest. “I’d probably already have kissed you and I’d slide my hands down over your sides. Dig my thumbs into the ridges of your hips. Stiles, open your mouth.”

Stiles does, letting Chris’ fingers press into his mouth, and scratching his nails over his own hips. His stomach muscles jump and he watches Chris through hooded eyes. Chris pushes his fingers into Stiles’ mouth and back out, groaning when Stiles presses his hand into his own bulge. 

“You look so good,” Chris says, voice rough and Stiles leans forward to take more of Chris’ fingers into his mouth. He sucks, works his tongue between them, he’d be moaning if he could. “You’re greedy. Already touching your cock.”

Stiles nods, lets Chris move his fingers over Stiles’ tongue obscenely. 

“If you’re going to do it, do it properly. Follow through, Stiles,” Chris warns and he fits a third, rough finger into Stiles’ mouth. 

Stiles reaches down to push his waistband around his thighs and finally grips himself. Stiles is oversensitive, writhing under his own hand and panting around Chris’ fingers. Chris moves his fingers, a slow and dirty back-and-forth and Stiles’ eyes flutter closed for just a moment. 

“Look at me,” Chris orders and Stiles forces his eyes to focus on Chris’ steely ones. “You’re shameless. I can’t believe you’re real.”

Stiles fists his dick in earnest and, without any real warning, he’s cumming with a harsh gasp. He’d be embarrassed if he could string a thought together and he flops back, lower belly still tensing rhythmically. He’s got wet splatters on his stomach that already feel cold and his jaw is sore. He’s also tingling over every inch of his body. He cranes his neck to grin at Chris. 

“You are...far too smug,” Chris says and he wipes his fingers off on Stiles’ pant leg. “You look like the cat who got the canary.”

“You’re the canary,” Stiles signs and lets his head hit the pillow. 

“You’re so frustrating,” Chris says under his breath and Stiles waves dismissively at him. “I came here to prove a point. But you’re...distracting.”

Stiles reaches down, grabs his shirt and sops off his stomach. He grabs his white board and writes on it,  _ Can I touch you? _

“No,” Chris says, standing and adjusting himself in his pants. “I can let myself out. I’ll see you around.”

Stiles shrugs, dropping the board and pulling his pants back up around his hips. Chris flicks off the light on his way out and a moment later the front door opens and closes. Stiles stretches out, enjoying the warm feeling in his belly and drifts off. 

  
  



	3. unmade by your fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed. Thank you for your patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that under-negotiated kink tag comes into play. It takes place in the scene when Stiles first goes to Chris’ house. It is regarding situational bondage.

_ Can I come over  _

Stiles exhales through his nose and rolls on his stomach, puts the phone face down. 

He hadn’t texted Chris since he’d come over that night. Stiles brushes his fingers over his mouth, slips the rough pad of his fingers over his tongue. He liked the taste of Chris. 

His phone remains depressingly quiet and he heaves himself off the couch, heads towards the kitchen. Ronan is gone again, off studying or something, but Cora is humming to herself while she makes a giant pot of spaghetti. 

“Hey, brother-oh-mine,” she says and rubs her cheek against his when he slumps over her back. “Boy troubles?”

“Man troubles,” Stiles signs around her shoulders. 

“Oh, god,” Cora groans but she leans her head fully against his. “You mean my girlfriend’s dad.”

“Our girlfriend’s dad,” Scott corrects cheerfully from the kitchen table. He’s got a book of sign language open in front of him and Stiles watches him carefully sign ‘spaghetti’ to himself. “Tell us your woes, Stiles.”

Stiles purses his lips and lets go of Cora to climb up on the kitchen table. He pulls his knees to his chest and picks up his white board from beside him. 

“I just texted him to hook up and he hasn’t said anything,” Stiles writes and Scott nods sagely.

“You gotta drop a nude, my guy,” Scott says. “Get his attention.”

“Veto,” Cora says. She crosses the room and crawls into Scott’s lap, looping an arm around his neck. “Vetoed. Also I heard your phone vibrate. Could have been him.”

Stiles scoots off the table and retrieved his phone. Returning to the kitchen table, he opens the message from Chris. 

_ Ally is here. I don’t allow trouble over when she’s home. _

“Cora,” Stiles signs, snapping to draw her from her nuzzling of Scott. “Invite Allison over. She’s de facto cockblocking me.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t get in the middle of this,” Cora says. “She’s going to find out eventually. And she’s already going to be upset I knew and didn’t say anything. She would dump me if she knew I Iured her over so you could get it in.”

“Be a bro,” Stiles signs and Cora exhales loudly. 

“We’re going to a movie tonight anyways,” Scott says and Cora flashes her eyes at him. “Put those away, babe. We already planned to go out. We can’t help what Stiles does on his own time.” 

“Trust Stiles to pollute our resident Boy Scout,” Cora grouses. She smacks a kiss on Scott’s temple and then stands to tend to dinner. 

“Ronan coming home tonight?” Scott asks, leaning back in his chair. 

“Who knows,” Stiles shrugs. He picks at his fingernails. Looks at his phone. 

_ Later then _ , he sends. 

The reply comes a moment later. 

_ If you’d like.  _

***

Chris’ house is boring. Tan and white and well-groomed. But Stiles’ stomach drops either way. Chris meets him at the door, most likely having heard his motorcycle coming down the street. 

“You look like a punk,” Chris says in lieu of a greeting. He opens the door wide enough that Stiles can slip past him. “Take off your boots, Zuko.”

Stiles doesn’t know who Zuko is but he takes off his boots either way and leaves them by the shoe rack inside the door. He slips out of his moto jacket as well and drops it on top of his boots. 

He’s left in a white t-shirt, black jeans and a pair of socks. When he turns back to Chris, the man is watching him. He’s backlit by the windows around the door, face hidden in shadow. Stiles’ dick jumps. 

“Follow me,” Chris says after a beat. His voice is gravelly and low. 

Stiles shivers. 

He leads Stiles to a bright, sterile kitchen. There’s a broom leaning against the wall and it’s so noticeably out of place that Stiles can’t help but be drawn to it. Chris sits at the kitchen table, leaving Stiles to stand uncomfortably before him. 

“I can tell you’re smart, Stiles,” Chris says. He kicks a leg out a little, rests his hand on his bulge. “I watch your face and I can see how fast your brain is working. But I can’t understand why you keep walking back into my life.”

Stiles bites his lower lip, releases it. Licks across the seam of his lips. 

“I say to myself, what does he think I can give him?”

Stiles’ stomach drops out of body and he huffs a nervous breath. Chris’ voice is steady, calm and contained. 

“You think I’ll hurt you. And you’re here anyways. And you’re going to do whatever I want.”

And then he directs Stiles to pick up the broom and hold it behind his back, fold the wooden handle into the crook of his elbows. It pushes his sternum out and puts a dull but intense stress on his shoulders and forearms. 

“On your knees,” Chris murmurs. “You could be speeding around on that death trap of yours or getting alcohol poisoning and beating the tar out of some random frat boy. I know why you’re here, Stiles.”

Stiles feels another thrum of arousal as he carefully lowers himself to the ground. Balancing is hard with his arms back and  _ up _ but he keeps his chin up. Watches Chris carefully from the floor.

“You can leave when you’re done,” Chris says. He picks up a magazine, something involving guns, and settles into his kitchen chair. 

Stiles exhales mutinously but Chris just shakes his magazine out in response. The only sound in the kitchen is Stiles breathing, his own heartbeat in his ears and Chris’ magazine. His forearms burn from where they’re braces against his sides. His knees hurt. His feet are already falling asleep. 

He readjusts, watching Chris, and sits tailor-style on the tasteful tiles in the Argent kitchen. While this relieves the pressure in his legs, it does nothing for the strain in his shoulders and arms. If anything, it makes it worse. He shifts back to his knees and closes his eyes briefly, trying to find a place of peace that will allow him to jump through this hoop of Chris’.

Peter comes to mind. Peter’s hands on his skin. Peter’s eyes glinting in the dark. The angle of his jaw that Stiles’ never got to bite. Anger curdles in his belly and he grits his teeth against the pain in his arms and shoulders.

It’s a constant burn now. From his collar bones to his shoulder blades and then all through his arms down to his wrists. Sweat moistens his hair and he can feel it begin to soak his shirt. His feet are completely numb. 

Chris turns his magazine page for the umpteeth time. 

He observes with a terrible focus a bead of sweat dripping from his bangs, curling across his forehead and sinking into the fringe of his lashes. It burns and he shakes his head to clear it but the motion just forces more sweat from his hair. His knees ache. 

He can’t think, he can only feel, and by the time Chris is halfway through his magazine Stiles is shaking on the floor. The burn has spread to his lower back and thighs and it’s taking every ounce of his self-control not to drop the broom and stretch his arms.

He shifts, sends sharp pain up his knees, and makes an accidental rasping sound. This draws a glance from Chris. 

“You can leave when you’re done,” Chris says again, bored sounding. Stiles feels a flood of frustration and, to his disgust, the prickle of tears stings his eyes. Chris watches him a moment longer and then returns to reading. 

Another quarter of the magazine is gone through and Stiles feels his phone begin to buzz in his pocket. It startles him enough that he almost drops the broom but at the last moment he catches himself. The tightening of his biceps causes a new wave of pain to curl over his shoulders and he bows his head. 

The phone stops vibrating, the phone call ended, and then starts anew. Stiles can’t hold a thought together long enough to decide if he should answer it or not and when he lifts his head Chris is watching him carefully.

“Who is calling you?” Chris asks, face placid and still. “Your pack?”

Stiles shakes his head, clenched his jaw. 

“It probably isn’t important. Do you want me to see who is calling?”

Stiles hesitates, tries to form a coherent thought. 

“No?” Chris sits back in his chair. “I’ll leave it alone.”

It begins to ring again. 

Stiles tries to meet Chris’ eyes again but he remains firmly invested in his magazine. Stiles flutters his fingers at his sides, bobs his head, does everything short of standing and waving his arms but Chris continues to ignore him. 

The burning stress in his arms and chest and the constant ache of his knees meets the frustration he feels at being so effectively silenced and to his absolute horror, a tear drips down his cheek. 

And then another. And another. The floodgates, only opened when he’s absolutely alone in the woods, have cracked open here on Chris Argent’s floor. The shame mixes with the anger and pain and it all culminates in him hiccuping messy tears on the floor. 

Then, a hand grasps his chin. 

He opens his eyes against the tears, blinks away the fuzzy vision and then Chris begins cleaning his face with a white cotton handkerchief. Mops up his tears and snot, wicks the sweat away from his brow and the spit from his chin. The tenderness is ruined when Chris pulls back and neatly folds the fabric. Stiles watches in befuddlement as Chris tucks the handkerchief into a ziplock bag, seals the bag, and sets it on the table. 

Chris sits back down and resumes reading his magazine. 

The tears have petered off now, and a sense of dullness has filled in his panicked senses. He feels like some kind of transaction has occurred—he’s fulfilled something for Chris unknowingly. And Chris has fulfilled something for him. 

It’s a struggle to unclench his arms and release the broom. Chris looks up when it clatters to the ground. He sets the closed magazine back on the table and crosses his arms to watch Stiles. Straightening his arms burns but he grits his teeth and forces his hands down. Standing is equally difficult, he can’t feel his calves or feet. His sweat-soaked shirt feels clammy now and there’s a terrible growing sickness in the pit of his stomach. 

He rushes on dead feet back into the foyer, jams his feet into his boots and slams the door on his way out, leather jacket slung over his shoulder and helmet under his arm. He stops halfway down the walkway to vomit into Chris’ flowerbeds with prejudice. 

He probably isn’t safe to ride but he can’t be here another second. He jams his helmet on and rides off into the night as quickly as he can. He doesn’t look back.

***

Rowan is home when Stiles finally unlocks his front door. He skips hellos and heads straight into the bathroom, stripping his clothes off en route. He doesn’t look in the mirror. 

The shower is still cold when he climbs inside but he finds relief in the shock to his system. He pours body wash on his head and scrubs his face and neck and body in rough, jagged motions. He tries to feel something. 

Rowan calls something through the door. Stiles can’t hear him over the roaring in his head.

The door opening is almost enough to kick him out of his head but he keeps scratching the soap over his body. The water is too hot now, stinging and burning across his skin. 

“—iles. Stiles!” Rowan snaps, wrenching the curtain open. Stiles turns blearily toward him, soap dripping into his eyes and mouth. “Jesus.”

Rowan reaches out, flinching when he feels the heat of the water, and the he’s stepping into the shower still-clothed and blocking the water from Stiles by curling around him. Rowan is a hulking comfort, a dark curtain between Stiles and the world. He cradles Stiles’ face, thumbs suds from his eyes and lips and then reaches behind himself to turn the water to a more neutral temperature. 

“What are you doing to yourself, brother?” Rowan asks in a tiny voice, pressing even closer and turning them so the safe-temperature water can sluice over Stiles’ head and rinse soap from his eyes and mouth. “What’s happening? Where were you?”

“Chris,” Stiles signs with shaking fingers. He presses his face into Rowan’s chest. The wet shirt is still burning hot. 

“You smell like—like torture—fuck,” Rowan hisses and he presses his face against the wet spikes of Stiles’ hair. Stiles feels his fingertips sharpen into claws. There’s a throaty growl in Rowan’s voice when he speaks again. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Stiles shakes his head. 

Rowan pulls him impossibly closer, scents him fully and slowly. Stiles’ sore arms and shoulders begin to tingle and the pain drips away. When he opens his eyes, he sees the black veins trailing up Rowan’s forearms. 

“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” Rowan asks, voice gentle but firm. 

Stiles shakes his head. 

“I’m going to kill him. Tear his  _ face off _ —,” Rowan growls around wicked teeth and Stiles shakes his head again.

“He didn’t touch me. Just wiped my face. He didn’t do anything,” Stiles signs. His arms feel like concrete. “Want to sleep.”

“You still smell, like...bad,” Rowan says. He efficiently scrubs body wash into Stiles’ hair and armpits. 

Finally, after stripping his wet clothes off, Rowan allows Stiles out of the shower and into a robe. He ties a towel around his own waist and then corrals Stiles into Rowan’s room. Stiles gets a rundown with a towel and then Rowan feeds his arms into a giant t-shirt and his legs into too big boxers. Rowan dresses quickly and then he’s nudging Stiles under the covers and draping himself over Stiles’ back. The bed smells so safe and Rowan is so warm that Stiles falls asleep almost immediately. 

Stiles wakes up slowly. His head feels thick and his arms and legs ache. Rowan is gone from his back. He’s got his nose pressed into a tangle of long hair and he curls a little closer when he recognizes Cora’s smell. She’s balled up against his chest, snoring quietly into his chest. 

He wakes up a little more and Rowan’s voice filters into his consciousness. Stiles listens to his half of the conversation. 

“It’s not fucking fair. You have him chasing this—“

“Don’t lie to me. I know where you are. You get to watch him and he has to no idea—“

“Do you know where he was tonight? A hunter’s house— You already know. You know what he’s doing?”

“You’re unbelievable. You’re—Fuck! You’re killing him. He needs you, you absolute idiot.”

Stiles stills his breathing, matches Cora’s heavy and slow breaths and feigns sleep a little longer. Rowan is talking to Peter. 

“Whether or not you deserve him doesn’t matter. What matters is him. You are stringing him along— I don’t  _ care  _ if it’s unintentional. You’ve got him holding out for you. It’s not lost on me who he picked for his surrogate you. I remember the stories.”

“Wait—The Argent hunter? You’re talking to him? What kind of twisted game do you have Stiles mixed up in?”

“It’s  _ not  _ the best way. You didn’t have to clean him up. You didn’t have to wash off the stench of whatever Argent put him through.”

Stiles freezes when Cora lifts her chin to meet his eyes. She looks miserable. 

“Rowan,” she says softly. Rowan inhale sharply and Stiles makes a hurt sound of betrayal in his chest. She closes her eyes against them both. “I’m sorry, brother.”

“Stiles. How much did you hear?”

“Too much,” Cora answers for him. She sits up and hugs her legs against her chest. “So did I. How long has uncle been in town?”

“Not long,” Rowan sighs. He crosses to kneel at the edge of the bed near Cora. “After your crash, Stiles. He wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“That was weeks ago,” Stiles signs around Cora. He sits up too. “He’s been here? Watching me?”

“Not the whole time. He checks on you.”

“And hooks up with Mr. Argent?” Cora asks, anger roughening her voice. 

“I didn’t know about that. I don’t really know. I should have told you both. I’m sorry,” Rowan breathes, voice tight. He presses his face into his own hands and Stiles feels the frigid anger within him thaw. 

“It’s okay,” he says after he pulls Rowan’s head up gently. “Where is he?”

***

The ride back to Chris’ felt like it took just a split second. There was nobody parked outside but Stiles wouldn’t put it past Peter to run there in foot to be more conspicuous. Stiles is banging on the door before he’s even got his helmet off and when Chris opens the door with a frown, Stiles pushes into the house. He charges through the first floor, searching for his Peter. 

“He’s not here,” Chris says, leaning against the wall. “Took you awhile to figure it out. Longer than I thought it would.”

Stiles fumbles his phone from his pocket, pulling up his text-to-voice app. 

“Did you know who I was at the first party? Before we went to pizza?”

“No,” Chris says. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even know you were Peter’s until after the night we all got ice cream. He came here late that night. Remember how you licked my fingers? He got on his knees in my garage and did the same.”

“But when you came to my house you knew.”

Chris nods. 

“And you still did all of that?” Stiles fingers fly across the keyboard of his phone. He can’t catch his breath. 

“He met me here after that too. Sucked the same fingers you did. Wanted to taste you,” Chris says. He pushes off the wall and walks towards the kitchen. “He’s soft for you.”

“You’re the guy he was with after his dad. From the shooting range,” Stiles barely waits for a confirmation before he types his next sentence. “Did he kiss you?”

“He always kisses me,” Chris says, strong and steely beneath the kitchen fluorescents. His mouth doesn’t look inviting but the idea that it had touched Peter in the last ten hours is enough to make Stiles yearn. It is intoxicating. It is heady and dizzying. 

Stiles crosses the room. 

Chris doesn’t move more than slouching down a little so Stiles can fit their mouths together. It’s a dry kiss. Stiles is kissing a memory and Chris doesn’t care. Stiles thinks he can smell Peter—can sense him—and he presses close and opens his mouth against Chris’. 

Their tongues meet and every nerve in Stiles’ body flares to life. Peter. Every neuron he’s stifled trills. Peter. He clutches the soft grey sweater Chris is wearing and sinks further into the kiss, aching and arching to try and steal just a little more of his Peter. 

“Did you shiver like this for him?” Chris asks, pressing proprietary hands to Stiles’ back. “How many times did he wreck you?”

_ Just once _ , Stiles thinks. Chris meets his eyes carefully. There’s a strange expression there. An understanding that leaves Stiles feeling lost. His eyes burn, icier than Peter’s but still so blue. Stiles presses as close as he can. Chris has revealed himself tonight, allowed Stiles to be privy to a side of him that is most likely hidden carefully. Something slots into place. 

_ We are the same. Chasing a ghost and finding him in each other. Peter belongs to us both. We aren’t enemies, we are the same.  _

Stiles leans up, opens his mouth against Chris’ and wills him to understand that he is seen. Wills him to see. The fuel of desperation pushes them farther and farther until Stiles is being hoisted up on the counter like a rag doll, Chris between his legs and up against his front. Stiles alternates between twisting his fingers in Chris’ hair and clutching his shoulders. Chris pulls back with harsh pants, meets Stiles’ eyes with impossibly blue eyes. 

“When it was me and him—we were fire and whiskey. We burned each other up,” Chris breathes against Stiles’ mouth between kisses. “Racing cars or fist fighting. I could never just be still with him. Neither of us could. I could have loved him forever if it wouldn’t have killed us both. But he just softens for you. Just unfolds like a flower. Do you know how strange that is to see?”

Chris runs his fingers up Stiles’ back and around to Stiles’ front, to his shoulders. Holds him back. 

“You should have seen him when I gave him that rag. The one you cried all over. I thought he was going to tear me apart. But he deserves to know. Doesn’t he, Stiles? Doesn’t he deserve to know how much you need him?” Chris asks in a hushed voice. He keeps Stiles at bay with a hand on his chest and presses the pad of his thumb against the soft skin under Stiles’ eye. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say— or even how to say it. Chris sighs and steps back to arms’ length. 

“Go home. I’m not telling you where he is,” Chris says, not unkindly. He rubs a thumb over Stiles’ sternum. It’s soft and tender and Stiles’ feels like he could cry. “Go.”

“Dad?” Allison calls from upstairs. “Is someone here?”

“They’re just leaving, honey,” Chris returns casually. He presses a coarse palm to Stiles’ cheek. “Go home.”

Stiles goes.

***

The twins meet him inside the doorway and he pushes passed them to drop his jacket on the ground and kick off his boots. They wear matching nervous expressions and he sighs at the sight. He’s exhausted. He continues into his bedroom and flops into bed with his jeans and Henley on. 

“Come on, twins,” he says with sharp flicks of his wrist. They land on his bed with snarls, each wrestling to be closest to him and to coil around him. They’re incensed by his smell, by his heart rate and the stress coursing through his blood. 

Cora wins the battle, twisting around his back so she can pillow his head on one arm and pet his hair with the other. Rowan slinks up Stiles’ front, whining low and quiet. Stiles squeezes Rowan, tries to radiate forgiveness. 

“I know it’s some freaky Edward Cullen shit,” Rowan says softly. He presses clawed fingers over Stiles’. “But he really does love you. And I remember how happy you guys were. And I thought if he saw you and how sad you are—how dangerous you’re being—he’d come out of hiding and talk to you.”

“It’s Uncle Peter. He doesn’t know how to do rational shit, Rowboat,” Cora says. She scratches her fingernails over Stiles’ scalp. “You can’t keep stuff from us. You never get to keep secrets from us.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly. “I know.”

“Stupid,” Stiles signs lazily against his chest. 

“Yeah,” Rowan says softly. He peers up at Stiles with his big, handsome face and Stiles tweaks his nose so he’ll smile. 

“Never again,” Stiles signs carefully, making sure Rowan sees it all. “Promise.”

“I promise. I won’t keep secrets from you guys. You’re my pack. I messed up,” Rowan says and Stiles kisses his forehead loudly. 

“You’re forgiven,” Cora announces cheerfully and they all perk up at the sound of the door being unlocked. “Can we stop moping and go hang with Scotty now?”

“Scott time?” Rowan asks hopefully and Stiles grins as he climbs off the bed. 

***

Staking out Chris’ house is easy. He has a relatively busy street and Allison parks on the street so it’s easy to tell when she isn’t home. Even so, it’s a few days before Peter shows. Chris meets him at the head of the driveway, the garage door rolling up to reveal him. Peter lopes up, scenting the air visibly, and Stiles wonders if he’s searching for Stiles’ scent. 

They exchange a few words before Chris reaches out, laces his fingers in the hair curling over Peter’s collar, pulls him close and then they’re kissing. Stiles is so overwhelmed with wanting that he can’t even begin to be jealous. He misses the feel of Peter’s hair, silky from expensive product. The smell of his natural scent. The rasp of his stubble and the tilt of his mouth. 

Chris’ hands stroke so gently over Peter’s shoulders, down to clutch into the back of his coat. Stiles finds a mirror in the white knuckles of Chris’ hands and in the sweet turn of his head to meet Peter’s easier. Peter’s arms hesitate at his sides for a long moment and then he reaches to hold Chris’ hips. They kiss for an agonizingly long time and Stiles finds himself crowded over the steering wheel of Cora’s car to peer at them closer. 

Peter pulls back, says something Stiles can’t make out and Chris turns back into the garage. He returns with the sweater he was wearing the night Stiles confronted him about knowing Peter. The night Stiles saw the sameness in Chris. He holds it a long while, folded neatly in his arms, and it seems like a heavy weight when he finally holds it out towards Peter. Peter doesn’t move immediately, Stiles can see his hands shake when he does take the sweater from Chris. Another beat passes and then Peter presses the sweater to his face. Stiles can see his shoulders moving as he inhales deeply, over and over. 

Peter is drawn into the garage then and Stiles watches the door roll down. It’s over an hour before he leaves again and Stiles misses the first half of his ASL club waiting for him. Peter leaves in an oily black Audi and Chris stands in the driveway for a moment, watching him leave as well. Then, he turns and meets Stiles’ eyes. 

He waves. 

***

Stiles is a few drinks in, lost in the music at some random frat party. He’s alone in the crowd, twisting under shitty strobe lights and holding his plastic cup above his head. The music is just as weak, some chipper pop song that Stiles can’t relate to, but it’s loud and fast. Someone jostles him from behind, moves against his back and shoves him forward before pulling him close with hands on his hips. 

Stiles looks behind himself and sees some random dude grinding on him. He’s attractive enough, big and burly. Dark hair, white teeth. Stiles turns in his grasp, throws the rest of his drink into his mouth and drops the empty cup. He laces his arms behind the guy’s neck and pulls him down a little so he can rub his cheek over the guy’s stubble. If he really tries, he can pretend Peter is holding him close. The music crescendos before the beat drop and, in that spare split-second of silence, Stiles smears his mouth against the guy’s. 

The kiss turns serious fast and Stiles is being urged into a darker hallway before the song ends. He goes, lost in cheap whiskey and the touch of someone’s hands on his body. He imagines Peter and Chris in turn, pictures their eyes closing and their mouths catching his. The guy he is actually kissing makes a noise that jars Stiles’ from his fantasy and makes him realize his lips are numb and his sweat has turned tacky. 

“Upstairs?” His companion asks quietly when Stiles pulls back and Stiles hesitates. 

The idea of someone touching him is wrong. It should be Peter. Or Chris. But not some random person at a party. He knows that he would regret it. He knows he’s right in waiting them out, he knows they would be happier if they just let him have them both. 

His lazy arousal turns to bitterness and he leaves the guy calling after him in the hallway. The kitchen yields more alcohol and then he’s back in the fray of the music. His bitterness simmers under his skin as the night goes on. Finally, he spots someone shoving Rowan in the kitchen. The guy is as short as Stiles, skinny too. His dark hair is a little longer and he’s got glasses on. Stiles is certain he can take him. 

He’s across the party in an instant, getting up in the guy’s face without a second thought. The dude falls back against the fridge, his face curved into a scared frown. Arms are wrapping around Stiles’ middle and he flails before he realizes it’s Rowan. His blood stops rushing in his ears enough for him to understand what Rowan is saying. 

“—my  _ friend _ . He’s a friend. He’s kidding around, brother,” Rowan is repeating in Stiles’ ear while he restrains him from attacking the guy further. 

“Sorry,” Stiles signs, sheepish. He’s tired now from the adrenaline crash and he rests against Rowan. Rowan makes apologies for him, pulls him in close by the head so Stiles is leaning on his shoulder. 

“I’m going to take him home,” Rowan says and the guy—the friend—fist bumps him before they take off. 

The car ride is silent before Rowan sighs and turns off the music. Stiles turns to look at him.

“That was Aaron. He’s in my business class. He’s pretty cool,” Rowan says and Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

Rowan doesn’t make friends outside the pack. And he never calls anyone cool. He’s basically singing the praise for this random skinny dork. 

“You like him,” Stiles’ phone chirps. “You think he’s hot.”

“Yeah? So. Cora has a human boyfriend and girlfriend. Aaron is cool.”

“Aaron’s a twerp. He couldn’t fight anyone.”

“Oh and Scott can?” Rowan laughs. “Not everyone picks their partner based off deadliness, Stiles. Aaron makes me laugh. He’s funny.” 

“Funny looking,” Stiles teases and Rowan snorts. 

He always looks the most handsome laughing. 

“Cora has almost a worse first meeting with him. She kept calling him bargain-Stiles. I think it hurt his feelings,” Rowan says. His voice has sombered. He keeps his big hands firmly at 10 and 2, focused entirely on the road. Silence builds. 

Aaron does look a little like Stiles. Moles and all. Stiles looks at his hands, scared and pocked from his rough living. He looks at his grimy shoes and holey sweatpants. Aaron looked nice. He seemed friendly. He thinks of the comfort Rowan gives to him and the affection he has for Rowan. 

“You know you’re my number one. You’re as much mine as I am yours. Pack. My brother,” Stiles types carefully. He hesitates over the speak button. He deletes it. Instead, his phone says, “Aaron is cool.”

“Yeah,” Rowan says. They’re quiet until they pull into the garage and then, wordlessly, they go to their separate rooms. 

Stiles is listless in his room. He rolls around, seeking sleep and only finds guilt and sadness. He pulls out his phone. 

_ On my way _ , Stiles sends. Chris reads the message but doesn’t respond.

He feels that same thread of anger that’s been charging through him all night spark up as he fits on his moto jacket. It’s a quiet night and Stiles takes a perverse pleasure in ruining it with the rip of his motorcycle engine. Chris opens the door to him before he knocks, clad in black joggers and a clean white tee. 

“You didn’t get enough last time?” Chris asks and Stiles rolls his eyes mulishly. 

Stiles pushes past Chris, shedding his jacket on the floor. Chris watches him from the entryway. Where Stiles had felt exposed or prey-like before, he feels like he’s on the same footing as Chris.

Tonight, Stiles is the winning elk. 

“If you want games, I can play too,” he signs in sharp flicks. Then he hops over the back of the couch and sprawls on it. 

“I really should pick up more ASL,” Chris says from behind Stiles. 

He barely makes a sound on the carpet as he comes around to face Stiles. The adrenaline coursing through Stiles has made his chest flush, his heart beat, and he rubs a hand over his sternum. Chris watches his hand trail down until it meets the hem of Stiles’ boxers. 

“It’s why you won’t really touch me,” Stiles signs, then returns his fingertips to his waist. “He won’t let you. But I don’t answer to a ghost. If he wants to control me, he can do it in person.”

Chris watches his fingers move carefully, his eyes dart to Stiles’ occasionally and when Stiles lifts his heels up to rest on the edge of the couch, Chris sinks to his knees. Chris still looks like a dangerous creature, even on the floor. His eyes glint in the dark, the light from the hallway catching on the whites of his eyes. Chris parts his lips, just a little, and Stiles pushes his hand down between his legs. This is the second time he’s been with Chris like this but the difference in circumstances is incredibly jarring. 

He’s the one pushing it forward, the one guiding the night. The one in control. He lifts his chin a little, watching Chris tilt his own head to keep eye contact with Stiles. 

Chris reaches out, slowly, and wraps his hand around Stiles’ ankle. He rubs his thumb over Stiles’ ankle bone and Stiles revels in the delightful shiver that moves over his body. Chris breaks into a smile, something more playful than anything Stiles has seen so far. On a whim, Stiles reaches out and strokes his finger over the fullness of Chris’ lower lip. 

Chris’ smile splits just that much further and he tilts his head down a little, looks up at Stiles through his lashes. Stiles feels like he cracked a code or deciphered a secret message in this. Chris inhales quietly and Stiles sits back again, scooting so his legs spread that much more. Chris moves with him, leaning in, but he’s halted by the press of Stiles’ hand against his chest. 

“You are L-O-N-E-L-Y,” Stiles finger-spells bluntly. “Me too.” 

Chris’ mouth fits into a firm line. Stiles meets his eyes steadily. He wants Chris to realize that they’re the same. That they can stop being lonely together. Stiles could love Chris. He hopes Chris could love him. Then Peter can come back. The quiet lasts, crystalline and brittle, until finally Chris exhales heavily. 

“You really are trouble,” Chris says quietly. 

He closes his eyes for a long moment. Stiles curls down to catch his mouth and they move together on the couch in slow motions. Chris’ hands are strong and sure under Stiles’ shirt. They trace the breadth of his ribs, falling over each one in a tender path and then they curl up to brush rough digits over Stiles’ nipples. Chris is still between Stiles’ legs on the floor, kneeling and touching with a genuine reverence. Stiles arches against his hands, urges Chris to move up so they can come together at the waist. 

Chris’ hard cock finally grinds against Stiles’ and they both gasp, open mouths meeting with a thoughtless kiss. Chris’ hands sink to grab Stiles’ hips and he anchors Stiles in place so he can grind on him with a deadly precision. Stiles pushes up the hem of his t-shirt so he can see Chris’ abdominal muscles work as he thrusts against Stiles. 

Their kisses become less about sensation and more about closeness. Being close to Chris is a comfort and the grip of his hands is certain to leave tangible bruises on Stiles’ hips. Stiles can’t wait. 

Chris is splayed over him, grinding a breathtaking pace against Stiles and his orgasm flickers to life in the pit of his stomach. He surges against Chris, chasing that feeling and Chris redoubles his efforts. Stiles cums with a harsh panting and Chris finishes soon after. 

Their breathing fills the room. Stiles looks down at Chris’ blonde head laying on his chest. He runs his fingers through Chris’ hair and Chris meets his eyes. Stiles watches him shut down. 

“Ally will be home soon. You have to go.”

Stiles sighs but he sits up. Sets his forehead against Chris’ and rests it there for a long moment. Their breath intermingles and Stiles fights the weird urge to press their mouths together and to inhale Chris’ from the source. Instead, he takes Chris’ hand and presses it over his pounding heart. Chris moves to lean his head against the crest of Stiles’ shoulder and he lays there, small against Stiles, still on his knees. 

They stay like that. Stiles, sitting tall in the dark. Chris, draped over Stiles. Then, Chris’ phone does ring and Stiles leaves while he’s still greeting Allison. 


	4. a puncture for mending

##  **GUTSHOT**

too much bruise out of nowhere, too much my body

hurting my body. too much nightmare in the night.

too much your hands, too much I quake. at sundown,

at the edge of scorching, too much like kerosene, too

much I become a puncture for mending.

-Emily Corwin

  
  


Chris ghosts him. 

Messages undeliverable. Doorbell unanswered. He doesn’t ask Allison out of respect for the tenuous relationship she’s forming with his pack. 

And then, the bombshell drops. 

“Stiles,” Cora whispers, crouching in front of him. 

It’s late and she’s just come home from a date. Stiles and Rowan are twisted around each other on the couch watching tv. He hums at her in greeting and she brushes a hand over his head.

“S’wrong, Cora?” Rowan asks, scenting the air. 

“Stiles, I just met Allison’s mom.”

“Fuck,” Rowan says softly. He sits up. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. 

“She was on a business trip. A hunting trip. She’s—They’re still married,” Cora says. She presses her nose into the crook of his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he signs, opening his eyes. It is okay. He knew he was saying good-bye to Chris that night in the living room. 

“Want me to kick his ass?” Rowan asks, eyes a burning yellow. “I can take him.”

“Shut up, Rowan,” Cora snaps. “Starting a fight with the hunters is not going to help anyone.”

“Oh, but screwing one is?” Rowan spits back and Cora rears back, dropping her fangs. 

“Can we focus on me?” Stiles signs between them, shoving Rowan’s head after. “I’m the poor baby.”

“You’re right,” Rowan says, rolling his neck. His fangs retreat and he blinks still-glowing eyes. “You are the poor baby.”

Cora is quiet for a moment, obviously getting herself back under control. Then, she slumps over Stiles’ lap. 

“Poor baby,” she says, squeezing his legs. 

Poor Baby started with Marcy, the youngest wolf in the Hale pack, and ended up being a pack-wide occurrence. When someone got hurt, emotionally or physically, they got to be the Poor Baby. 

“Poor baby,” Rowan says again, stroking a hand down Stiles’ neck. “What are you going to do?” 

“Finals are next week. Then we go home,” Stiles signs carefully. “I want Peter to come with us.”

Rowan stills tellingly and Stiles whirls to face him. 

“What?” He demands, sticking his hands in Rowan’s face. 

“He’s leaving the country. Probably this week.”

“Then I’m going to stop him,” Stiles signs. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Rowan says. “He hasn’t told me since it all went down.”

“I bet I can find out,” Stiles says.

***

Beneath Stiles’ bed, nestled between canned goods and clothing items belonging to various members of his pack, is a small cardboard box. It’s grimy at this point from repeat handling and the ribbon on top is fraying from nervous fingers plucking loose strings. The box is not often opened. 

Stiles, on his stomach, draws the box to him by the ribbon. He stays down there, on the ground, and cracks the box open. A delicate bracelet lies within with a blank face plate. Stiles just barely rubs his thumb over the plate, leaving a smudgy thumb print. He pulls his hand away and folds his arms under his chin. 

When he’d first received this bracelet, he’d been drowning in Peter. Surrounded by comfort and safety for the first time in nearly a decade and so certain that Peter was his new life. He’d let Peter take his mother’s bracelet and replace it with a promise. 

One day, Stiles had thought that day in the log. One day this will say Peter and I’ll have everything I need. 

And then, Peter left. 

And Stiles had felt a pit in his stomach for years. A missing part. Who was he supposed to be when the one person that made him feel complete was gone? Stiles had felt like an empty cup, waiting for someone to make him useful again. So, he’d taken that anklet off and found an empty box and saved the bracelet. 

He’d never considered another name for the bracelet until now. He’d imagined those five letters over-and-over until he was dizzy with loss. But now, looking at the chain in the box, he knows that it will have to read something different. 

***

Stiles tails Chris to a hotel in town. He watches him go into a room and leave it hours later. He watches Chris slump in his car, forehead against the steering wheel for a long moment. He watches Chris drive away. 

Then, sweaty palmed and nauseated, Stiles knocks on the door. 

Peter opens it immediately, face blank.

“You smelled me,” Stiles signs and Peter’s eyes unthaw a little. 

“I did,” he murmurs. His claws curve from his fingers, wicked against the soft butter-yellow lighting in the room. His face is cast in shadow. 

Stiles wants to break something. 

“Say something,” he signs, barely able to raise his arms. A hot tear trickles down his cheek. “Please. Please say something.”

He’d imagined hugs and kisses and Peter falling to his knees to apologize. He didn’t expect Peter to just stand in front of him. The silence stretches and Stiles feels his face crumple. His eyes sting and he just wants Peter to  _ do _ something. But nothing happens. Peter is a limp statue in the doorway and Stiles feels like he’s got a ball of lava in his chest. Peter’s eyes flit in his stoney face, searching Stiles’ face frantically. His chest catches in these tiny little hitches, like a car trying to start. Stiles bares his teeth, emotion overflowing his brain and he shoves Peter as hard as he can. 

Peter stumbles back a step and his expression finally breaks. Some dam falls and his eyes glitter in the night. 

“Stiles,” he croaks out, arms coming up to grasp Stiles’ shoulders. He falters, nearly tripping, and Stiles surges in to wrap his arms around Peter. “My--my--Stiles.”

Stiles holds him, squeezes his big barrel chest as tightly as he can. Peter’s rubbing his cheek over Stiles’ buzzed head firmly. He’s making a low keening noise in the base of this throat that has Stiles’ giving into the urge to force himself into Peter’s arms. He’d spent hours in Peter’s arms, clinging to him like a magnet. Peter always caught him. 

Tonight is no different. Peter gets a forearm under Stiles’ and the other arm bands across his lower back and Peter rubs his face against Stiles’ chest. Stiles is desperate, greedy for Peter, and he plasters himself against Peter. 

“Stiles,” Peter whispers against Stiles’ sternum. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. 

He doesn't know how long they stand there in the open doorway. Peter holds him and holds him and holds him and eventually Stiles’ legs fall asleep and wiggles until Peter sets him down. 

Peter grasps his face with both hands, fingers curving along Stiles’ neck beneath his ears and thumbs gently over the delicate skin beneath Stiles’ eyes. Stiles just looks at him, unable to believe that he’s with his Peter again. Fresh tears burn his eyes and blinks just once, and as quickly as he can, terrified that Peter will disappear. 

“I knew--No. I hoped you’d find me, bunny,” Peter says and the nickname brings another wave of tears to Stiles’ eyes. Peter’s eyebrows draw together and there’s an answering sheen in his eyes. “I hoped.”

“You’re stupid,” Stiles signs, smiling despite himself. “I love you.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” Peter answers, pressing his forehead to Stiles’ until it hurts. “I love you.”

“You won’t leave me,” Stiles signs. “Never again.”

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs, eyes closing briefly. When he opens them again, they’re electric blue. “I’ll come home.”

“No,” Stiles says with a sharp snap. “No. You won’t leave me again.”

“Stiles--”

“No. You don’t get to do this again. You’re mine, Peter,” Stiles signs. He reaches and slams the door shut. “Mine--Mine--Mine.”

“It’s not to hurt you,” Peter starts and Stiles bares his teeth again. 

“You’re mine and I’m yours and nothing else matters,” Stiles signs and he fishes a velvet bag from his pocket. He dumps it’s contents in his palm and Peter’s breath catches. Stiles turns his hand, revealing the etching on the plate. 

_ Stiles _

Stiles drops to his knees, yanking Peter’s pant leg up. He stops then, looks up with furrowed brows. He’s braced, holding the chain around Peter’s ankle but not clasping it. 

Peter’s got one shaking hand in front of his mouth and the other’s claws are dug into his leg. He’s still again, frozen and locked back into his mind. Stiles leans his head against Peter’s thigh and all the fight slips out of his body. 

He waits until Peter comes back and then Stiles’ tilts his chin up to look at Peter. Blood has stained the leg of Peter’s pants and it sparkles dully. 

“Yes,” Peter says with a rough voice. “Please.”

Stiles fastens the little clasp around Peter’s ankle, over his argyle sock and then Peter’s hoisting him up by his armpits. He embraces him again, curls his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and scents his neck. 

“I’ll be yours forever, Stiles,” he says softly. “Until I die. You’re stamped on my very being. I hope you know that.”

“Still sounds like good-bye,” Stiles signs, leaning back so Peter can see his hands. “You don’t get it.”

“Get what? That you imprinted on me when you didn’t know any better?” Peter asks, self-hatred evident in his tone. “And that I  _ let  _ you?”

“Bullshit,” Stiles signs. “I didn’t pick you out of a hat. I didn’t trip and fall in love with you. You’re my--”

Stiles falters, trying to find the right word. There isn’t a word that explains everything that Peter is to him. He exhales heavily, trying to calm down. Peter turns and collapses into a nearby chair. Stiles scrubs his hands over his own face and shakes his head. Then, he creeps across the room and crouches at Peter’s feet. Peter watches him carefully as Stiles runs a fingertip over the gold chain on Peter’s ankle. Stiles meets his eyes steadily and settles into sitting tailor-style on the floor. 

“I carry you everywhere. I am you,” Stiles says. 

Peter watches him quietly, eyes burning in the din of the hotel room. Stiles kisses his knee. 

“I’m you, too,” Peter says. His voice is gravely. “I don’t think I could be just me again.”

“Stop leaving me,” Stiles signs into his lap. He stares at his own hands. “Please.”

“I want to be the best I can be for you.”

“Don’t I get to decide if you’re the best?” Stiles asks. He looks up at Peter. “You know I’m the best for you.”

“I know,” Peter says, too gutted to be evasive. 

“Then stop all of this. If you run, I run with you.”

“How can it be that simple?” Peter asks, genuine. 

Stiles shifts to his knees and rises up so he’s between Peter’s knees. He swallows his nerves and slides closer, wraps his arms around Peter’s trim waist and rests his head against Peter’s chest. Peter’s hands settle on his back and Stiles inhales through his nose, enjoying the scent of his wolf. 

“It can be,” Peter answers himself. He pulls Stiles up so he’s bundled in his lap. Stiles feels like a lapdog around all the weres. But he doesn’t mind being Peter’s. “I won’t leave you again.”

“I’ll kill you if you do,” Stiles signs, only half-joking. 

“I know,” Peter says and he kisses Stiles’ forehead. 

***

Peter doesn’t come back to the apartment with him. Stiles has to finish finals. Peter has to get all of his belongings shipped to Beacon Hills. They agree to meet again in Beacon Hills. What’s a few days after years of waiting?

Stiles expects to feel panic when he rides away from Peter’s hotel the next day but all that he feels is relief. His life is settling into place, at last. 

Stiles closes the door to his apartment with a crazed grin stretching his face. He clutches his helmet to his chest and slides down the door like a girl from a romance movie. 

If he could sing, he would be. 

“Stiles,” Cora yelps from Rowan’s room. They barrel around the doorway in pajamas and Scott follows close behind. “You smell—!”

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” Rowan sighs, threading his hands in his hair. “Oh. Brother.”

“What is happening?” Scott asks, head swiveling between the three of them. “Why are you on the ground?”

“Peter,” Stiles spells out. “My Peter.”

“Is he coming with us?” Rowan asks, crowding against Stiles on the ground. “Did he say yes?”

“Of course he did,” Cora says, pulling them both to their feet. “Let’s go celebrate with iHop.”

“Pancakes?” Scott asks, looping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders from behind. “I’m in.”

They all pile into Cora’s car and chatter happily on the way to pancakes, still in their pajamas. Cora adds bunny slippers and Rowan carries her over the puddles in the parking lot. Scott keeps a warm, comforting arm around Stiles shoulder and a careful gaze on his hands.

“What are you doing after finals?” Cora asks Scott, chewing on her straw. 

“I’m gonna go stay with my mom,” Scott says, ruffling his hair with one hand. “I can’t afford an apartment on my own in town so I’ll go work at Target or whatever there until the fall semester.” 

“Come with us,” Stiles signs with sticky fingers. His pancake had frosting. “Me and dad have a spare bedroom.”

“And we have about six,” Rowan interjects. “I’m sure our Alpha won’t care.”

“I’ll text her,” Cora says, pulling out her phone. 

“Are you sure? That sounds awesome. I was pretty bummed that I wouldn’t see you guys for a whole summer,” Scott says. “Now we just need Ally to come and it’ll be perfect.”

“I think our Alpha’s hospitality probably ends at inviting hunters into the house,” Rowan says and he neatly catches the bacon Cora flicks at him. 

“She’s got an internship anyways. Maybe we can visit her though,” Scott says, slinging an arm around Cora’s shoulders and kissing her forehead. 

“Yeah, totally,” Cora says. She types something on her phone and then sticks it back in her pocket. “Mom says you can stay with us for the summer.”

“Awesome,” Stiles signs and he high-fives Scott across the table. “Trouble’s back in town.”

“I haven’t been to Beacon Hills since after you went missing,” Scott says, eyes a little distant. “Woah.”

“It’ll be good for you,” Rowan says. “Process some shit.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, nodding. “Process. It’ll be good.”

“Love you,” Stiles flashed at Scott and Scott thumps hianown fist over his heart. 

“You too, brother,” he says and Cora smiles at them both. 

***

Laura FaceTimes him later that day. She’s in the laundry room, folding clothes. She looks lovely in the soft, filtered light from the outside windows. 

“So, Peter said he’s coming home for good,” she says after they’ve exchanged greetings. “I’m happy for you two.”

“Thank you, Laura,” Stiles signs slowly. Laura has the hardest time with ASL. “I’m happy.”

“I’ve been airing out all the rooms with mom,” Laura continues. She pauses her folding and leans forward to prop her chin on her hand. “Should I make you a room? Or just prepare Peter’s?”

“I need a room,” Stiles signs. “Don’t want to push.”

“That’s probably smart,” she says. “Sometimes Uncle is like a wild horse. If you move too quickly he runs.”

“I’ve got a lasso,” Stiles signs. 

“A what?” She asks, leaning forward even more. 

He finger spells it and she laughs. 

“What’s so funny?” Marcy asks, elbowing her way into frame. Her face lights up when she sees who is on the other side. “Stiles!”

“Hi, Marcy,” he signs and she smiles even wider. 

“Look at my grown-up teeth,” she says, opening her mouth as wide as she can. “I have three in the back and my big teeth are growing in!”

“The better to eat with,” Stiles signs and Marcy cackles. 

“I’m going to go eat Ada,” she announces happily. “You’ll be back soon?”

“Three days,” he signs and she nods approvingly. 

“Bye, Stiles,” she chirps and disappears as quickly as she appeared. 

“We miss you,” Laura says, resuming her folding. “We miss all of you, of course. But our little bunny is particularly missed.”

“I miss the pack,” he signs. “And you get to meet Scott.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Laura says. “Cora’s boyfriend! And your friend? From when you were little, right?”

“That’s the one,” Stiles signs with a smile. 

They chat for close to an hour, just catching up, and Stiles realizes how happy he is to talk to the pack without the weight of his heartbreak hanging over his head. 

***

“Surf time,” Rowan says, sealing their last moving box. The apartment was pre-furnished but they have to bring home all their personal items. “Surf time. Gotta surf.”

“Okay, okay,” Cora laughs. “Get him out of here, Stiles.”

Stiles salutes and he and Rowan head to the beach for the last surf of the summer.

The beach is empty today. Most students are gone for the summer and the waves are a little rough for the casual crowd. Rowan and Stiles aren’t the casual crowd. 

They paddle out into the choppy waves together. The sun overhead and pat of butter in a beautiful blue sky. Stiles’ shoulders burn in the best way possible and he grins as he dips beneath an oncoming wave. When he surfaces again, Rowan is ahead of him by a few yards and he redoubles his efforts to catch up. The waves are perfect, the sun is warm and Rowan and Stiles ride the ocean for hours. 

Then, after the sun’s dipping below the waves, they go back to the empty apartment. Cora had arranged the movers while they were gonna. Scott and Cora are eating Chinese take-out on the living room floor and they dish Stiles and Rowan heaping plates. 

Tomorrow, they return to Beacon Hills. 

Tomorrow, Stiles returns to Peter. 

Tomorrow, life starts again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter for part two. Part three will begin being posted in the next few weeks. Thank you for reading. Thank you for following this story. I appreciate every single kudo or comment.   
Part three will be the last of this series. It’s going to focus on Peter again and what it looks like when he lets himself be happy with Stiles.   
It will also feature the Sheriff, the Hale Pack and Scott. I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles from 'GUTSHOT' by Emily Corwin. This is part two of three. It is going to end happily and with the main ship Peter/Stiles. If there is anything you feel that should be tagged, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr at [tarantula-teeth](https://tarantula-teeth.tumblr.com/)


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